Demon Child (Dalca 2)
by griffyn612
Summary: Rău Dalca is evil, of that you can be sure. But now, a greater evil of Dalca's own making has returned, and only he can end what he began. Righting the wrongs of the past is not in his nature, but that's what Dalca must do in order to restore order to the world. And he just might do that... assuming there's something in it for him.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: The Dresden Files is copyright Jim Butcher. This story is licensed under the Creative Commons as derivative, noncommercial fiction.

Warnings: Contains harsh violence and language

Timeline: This story takes place seven months after _Small Favor_ , two months after _Heart Burns_ , and thirteen months before _Turn Coat_ and _Hell Bent_.

 **Attention** : If you are interested in reading the rest of this story, please follow it. I'm weighing interest, as the first Dalca story met with minimal enthusiasm.

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Demon Child

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Chapter 1

 _June 18th, 1943 - Schwalmtal, Germany_

Rău Dalca waited with bored indifference as the would-be sorcerer prepared to kill a child.

The man's words were foreign to Dalca, which was in turn a foreign concept to him. In his many years on the earth, he'd heard almost every language mankind had invented for itself. But despite his age, there were things that predated even Dalca.

The rest of the ritual dealt with blood and death and power, things he was all too familiar with.

He had no trouble seeing in the hospital basement where the members of the Schutzstaffel Ahnenerbe had prepared the ritual site. When necessary, his eyes could shift into a reptilian form that allowed him to view the world with thermal vision. He could track each crisply uniformed Nazi as they moved about the room, the heat of their bodies providing all of the light he needed.

Such an ability was not required that night, though, as the room was well lit by the sacrificial fires that burned in the central cauldron.

The round iron pit stretched ten feet across and stood nearly five feet deep. It had been segmented with thin metal walls, dividing the cauldron evenly. The pattern left six triangular sections that surrounded a large hexagonal vat. To Dalca, the entire thing looked distinctly like a Star of David enclosed in a circle.

When he'd said as much to Hauptsturmführer Schröter, the man hadn't appreciated the comparison.

A bronze statue loomed over the cauldron, its metallic flesh seeming to move in the dancing firelight. The goat-like legs of the figure formed the rim of the iron pit. Captain Schröter knelt before it where the hooves joined, his own arms raised with palms turned upward in a cradling gesture, to mirror the limbs of the russet effigy.

The statue's human torso was straight, as were the bat-like wings spreading out behind it. The bull's head, complete with curving horns and flaring nostrils, seemed to be looking down at Schröter, its three obsidian eyes winking darkly in the firelight.

The captain had taken great pains to put the ritual together based on ancient texts the Ahnenerbe had found. A steady beat of drums accompanied his chanted words. While Schröter had elected to wear ceremonial robes, the six Oberschütze drummers were dressed in their Schutzstaffel dress uniforms. While crisp and striking, Dalca wondered if doing so might be complicating matters. After all, the Third Reich's blasphemous use of the Hindu swastika would seem to conflict with the captain's painstaking efforts to duplicate an old Canaanite ritual to summon a god of blood and fire.

The different sections of the cauldron each burned with washed coals, pagan woods, and ceremonial oils. As Schröter reached the crucial juncture in the ritual, more Nazi riflemen stepped forward with the offerings. One man stood beside the first of the six triangles with a bowl of flour. Another carried a box of live turtle-doves, their wings broken so that they could not take flight. An ewe, ram, calf, and ox were carried to the remaining four triangles. Each had seen their tendons cut, so that they could not struggle free. Their pitiful bleating was barely audible over the barrage of drum-beats.

Finally, a plank was lowered over the pit to allow two riflemen to carry the final offering to the statue's brazen hands, which loomed empty over the central vat. The men lifted a young boy between them, shuffling their feet in unison as they moved closer to the recessed fire-pit.

The boy, who likely had not seen his fourteen summer, did not squirm as they deposited him upon the open hands of the statue. His arms and legs had been bound together so that he could not hope to escape, not that he would know to try. The wretch had been pumped so full of drugs that his mind had been broken.

After the men stepped away, the plank was removed as Schröter's voice reached a fever pitch. His fingers dipped into a blood-filled bowl, before tracing out the final piece of the ritual on the floor before the cauldron. When his red-stained hands rose above his head in supplication, Dalca lifted his right hand out toward the brazier.

His arm was glowing with an inner light as he channeled some of his power out into the world.

Flames shot up as Dalca ignited the coals, just as the SS riflemen tossed their living sacrifices into each section. Tongues of fire shot up from the center, licking at the boy in the statue's grasp; the pain was enough to cut through his narcotic stupor. His scream was lost in the beat of the drums, until its faded away with his last breath. Eventually his limp form became so traumatized by the fire that it slipped between the hands and into the pit.

The drummers kept their beat as Schröter finished the ritual, his voice haggard as he screamed out the last of the magical words. When the chant ended, so too did the cadence, leaving the basement silent save for the roar of the flames.

Five minutes passed, before Schröter finally rose, his face twisted with frustration. Yet another failure ate away at his confidence, but his shoulders were still set with determination. Schröter glanced behind him, his dark gaze settling on Dalca. "Standartenführer Fürst, if you would."

In response, Dalca relaxed his arm, releasing the power he'd drawn upon. The flames in the cauldron tapered off, leaving the room shadowed under the glowing embers.

The others in the room all broke into motion. Each of the drummers removed their instruments and carried them to the side walls, away from the ever-present heat. Those that had supplied the offerings exited out a side door, while Schröter himself jotted notes into his little black book.

Dalca remained where he was, strategically located behind one of the short columns that held a bowl of incense. A dozen of them had been placed about the room; incense and oils that the ancient text had called for, but were most likely there to help with the rancid odor as the main offerings burned in the cauldron.

Once he'd finished his notes, Hauptsturmführer Jürgen Schröter motioned Dalca forward. In response, Dalca snapped a crisp full-armed salute that might have been just a touch patronizing, and then approached the man. The captain bore the insubordination well; he'd been preparing the ritual site for over a month, and Dalca had been with him for much of that time. Schröter knew that Dalca was no believer in the Third Reich's cause, nor did he care if the would-be sorcerer succeeded in summoning the old god.

He was only there for the payment.

Schröter passed the blood bowl to Dalca when he reached him. "Once more."

Dalca took the bowl wordlessly. With it in hand, he retreated back to the far side of the room, well behind the incense bowls. There, in the shadows, he found a dying man hanging on the wall.

Railway pins had been driven through his forearms to hold him in the crucifixion form, although chains around his limbs and neck carried their fair share of his weight. Steel manacles enclosed his wrists, although they lacked any chains themselves. To those unaware, they might wonder at their presence.

Dalca honed in on the intravenous line in the man's right arm. With an ease born of repetition, he balanced the bowl and tube in one hand while turning the knob on the line. Freed from confinement, the man's blood flowed freely into the bowl. It quickly filled, at which time Dalca twisted the knob a second time.

The young man groaned as his life-force was drained from him, his head rising just enough to watch as Dalca placed the bowl on a side table. Retrieving a small chalice from the same table, Dalca repeated the process. A hiss escaped the man's corpse-like lips as Dalca filled the cup, before once again stopping the flow.

"You will die for this," the man rasped, his voice as dry and cracked as his flesh, and sounding much older than his twenty-something years. His hair had been a brilliant blond when Dalca had first captured him, but was now filthy and limp as it hung about his head like sweat-soaked rags. His once lively hazel eyes were the color of storm clouds in the shadowed bunker, and his pale skin had grown gaunt as they drained him.

He'd looked the part of the ideal Aryan. If only he hadn't been working for the other side, he might have been spared.

"I doubt that," Dalca replied, his tone non-confrontational as he lifted the chalice to his lips.

The man growled at the sight, and a modicum of fight was restored to his beaten demeanor. A spark lit his eyes as he drew on what inner power he could, as if he might break free of the chains that bound him. As if he might be able to effect some level of vengeance before he breathed his last.

Considering that he was a Warden of the White Council of Wizards, he might have done just that, had it not been for the thorned manacles around his wrists.

The warden's defiance disappeared as the steel spikes bit into his wrists. Designed by someone that had truly hated mortal wizards — or, knowing the individual, had found them simply inconvenient at times — the manacles activated whenever the bearer attempted to use magic. Whether the power was drawn from inside or out, it did not matter. The spells in the metal would make sure that the wizard's mind suffered while it shunted their magic elsewhere.

With the manacles in place, the wizard stood no chance of casting any spells that might have freed him. But what his attempt _did_ succeed with was infusing his blood with his power and spirit.

Dalca's smile grew as he topped off the cup with a fresh sample, and drank the wizard's spiritually infused blood, taking his power for himself.

Despite appearances, blood alone held no satisfaction for Dalca, nor his kind. It was the power that came with the blood that interested them; the spirit that permeated the sanguine fluid of mortal veins.

The rest of his family would scoff at the idea of drinking blood to obtain a mortal's power. It was beneath them. And yet, due to circumstances beyond his control, Dalca found himself dependent on the crude method of lowly vampires to obtain his sustenance.

Dalca drank deeply as the man's consciousness fled, until a frustrated voice sounded behind him.

"Fürst!"

With a sigh born of growing impatience, Dalca discarded the cup and retrieved the bowl. He left the dying wizard behind, and returned to the cantankerous Nazi that he was considering strangling before the night was out.

By the time he made it back, he noted that several of the riflemen had returned, carrying another round of sacrificial offerings. Each was grim-faced and resolved; those with weak constitutions had already been weeded out hours earlier. Those capable of finishing the job brought more animals in, along with another young boy.

This one was perhaps a year or two younger than the last, which made him the youngest of the dozen or so they'd already sacrificed that night.

Dalca passed the the bowl of blood back to the would-be sorcerer. "This wellspring will run dry before long."

"It would last longer if you did not _sample_ it between every attempt," Schröter snapped, his dark gaze narrowing beneath his bald scalp. While the captain might be foolish to believe his attempts at summoning a god would work, he was also observant.

"I'm just warning you," Dalca replied as he looked at the bronze statue. "It looks like you should have used iron, like I said."

A flush came to Schröter's cheeks that had nothing to do with the unbearable heat in the room. "The sources said to use a bronze statue."

"That's fine, but the arms are sagging," Dalca informed him, nodding toward the burnished limbs that hung above the cauldron.

Schröter turned to look, and couldn't miss the apparent sag. The continuous exposure to Dalca's spellworked flames had weakened the metal, deforming what had been a painstaking effort to mold realistic arms and hands. Metal was already dripping from the clutching fingertips. To Dalca's eyes, the entire statute looked molten, as if it might collapse into a scalding pool of metal at any moment.

"We must do as the ancients said," Schröter replied, although he was sounding less sure after a dozen failures. "It will last until we've found the correct name."

Dalca shrugged, and retreated back behind the incense as Schröter peeled back one of his sleeves. Another red line appeared across his flesh as he cut himself, allowing his blood to drip into the bowl of empowered wizard blood.

Once that was done, and his robes had been adjusted, the man began his ritual again. It was a long-winded chant that Dalca worked hard at ignoring. Unlike song lyrics, ancient rites were not something you wanted to memorize. Not if you wanted to have a peaceful night's sleep ever again.

Dalca's mind drifted as the ritual droned on, and yet another sacrifice was prepared. He found himself idly wondering if any of it was worth the effort.

"Do you… realize… what you're doing…" came the feeble voice of the young man behind him.

Dalca turned, and saw that the wizard had regained consciousness. He strolled over, more interested in him than in the nonsense being spouted across the room. "They're trying to summon an old god."

"You all… have no idea…"

"Stow it, wizard," Dalca groaned impatiently. "It's hard enough listening to that fool drone on. I don't need you adding to it."

The wizard tried to turn his gaze to Dalca, but his focus wavered. "You are messing with forces—"

"Yes, yes," Dalca mumbled. "Forces beyond our comprehension. Power beyond our control."

"This is no laughing matter," the wizard managed.

"Everything you mortals do is laughable," Dalca retorted. "Why should this be any different?"

The wizard finally managed to lift his eyes. "What do you hope to gain?"

"Personally? Not much," Dalca admitted. "I was brought in to assist that _arschloch_ over there," he said, pointing a thumb over one shoulder at the raving lunatic in the white robes stained red with wizard's blood. "All I'm getting is you and your giggle water." Dalca tapped the intravenous line for emphasis.

The wizard's gaze narrowed. "You want my power."

"Well I'm not interested in you for your looks, Sunshine," Dalca replied wryly.

"Why are you doing this?" the wizard asked. "Are the rumors true? Are you some demon controlled by Kemmler?"

Dalca laughed at that. "A demon? No. Heaven forbid."

"Then why are you helping them?" the wizard gasped, the last of which was barely a whisper as his fatigue ebbed.

"Kemmler is helping me with a little problem," Dalca admitted. "You might say I have some… digestion issues. In return, I'm helping him bring about his Apocalypse. Which means _this_ month I'm helping _this_ Kraut."

"What does Kemmler need with an old god?" the wizard asked, his dirty golden eyebrows twisted in confusion.

"Nothing," Dalca confirmed. "He doesn't give two shits about any of this. Neither do I. But if Himmler's occultists can summon up demons and raise hell for you guys, then so be it."

"And so you align yourself with darkness—"

"Wizard, I _am_ darkness," Dalca said with a roll of his eyes, cutting him off. "I'm the darkest thing liable to show up in this forsaken place, no matter how much shouting that chrome-dome does."

The bald sorcerer, if that's what you could call someone with no real magical talent, continued his chanting, his voice reaching a fever pitch. He was clearly worked up, and was anticipating something great once they tossed the latest boy into the flames.

Dalca had no taste for such sacrifice. It was a waste of perfectly good power, all in the name of some ancient god that was mostly likely dead or locked away in Oblivion. Better to let the kids grow a few more years, until their lives were ripe for the picking.

Instead, he stood by while the fool sang his heart out. Dalca was simply glad that after that night, it'd all be over.

Only, it seemed that it would be over before the Kraut was done.

A flicker in the light drew Dalca's attention, drawing his eyes to a small form that appeared on the edge of the incense bowl.

The figure was tiny, standing no taller than four inches or so. Her skin was a dark blue that bordered on navy, which was mostly concealed behind her miniature SS uniform. The custom-made outfit had been modified to accommodate her more unique attributes, which included a long thin tail and gossamer gliding wings.

The pearlescent airfoils were just folding down across her back as the tiny fairy righted herself. She snapped a sharp salute of her own, although there was a mocking twist to her lips as she did. The water vâlvă held no more love for the Nazis than Dalca himself did, and her sharp anglerfish teeth appeared as she shot him a snide grin.

"Mara," Dalca said softly, somewhat surprised by her presence. "I thought you were steering clear of this?"

"I am, my lord," the fairy said as her black orbs focused on his cobalt eyes. Her head tilted to one side, causing the two illicium on her forehead to bob in that direction. "I thought you might want to know that several wizards are about to arrive."

A rasping laugh from behind confirmed that the wizard on the wall had heard her comment. "I warned you, monster."

Dalca rolled his eyes. "Go warn Herzog," he told Mara. "Make sure his Wolfsherzen hold them off as long as possible. I'll take care of things here."

The wizard's dry bark drew his attention back. "You think some tame lycanthropes are going to stop Wardens of the White Council?"

"Not my concern," Dalca replied as he checked his weaponry.

His Luger and black-bladed stiletto were both holstered on his left thigh, while his black-bladed sword hung above them on his hip. Dalca drew several inches of dark steel from the scabbard. Engravings ran the length of the cusped falchion; ancient spells that made it more powerful than any mundane weapon. The metal was mottled like all Damscus steel, save for the smooth edge that was sharper than any blade crafted by mortal hands.

It was an old blade, one that had taken countless lives over the centuries. And in the wane light, Dalca knew it was ready to take more.

With wizards in-bound, it would need to be.

The young man's eyes drifted down to the sword, his scowl returning. "When they see that blade, they'll know you for what you are," His gaze rose, a deep hatred burning in his eyes. " _Dubhlainn_."

Dalca's own gaze hardened. "Then this won't make matters worse, will it?"

Before the wizard could respond, Dalca darted in. His teeth grew long and sharp before sinking into the wizard's neck, and the man gasped as Dalca drank his life away.

The sense of power surged as the wizard fought back, but the thorned manacles prevented him from casting anything. Dalca drank deeply as the wizard's blood became enriched with power. He drank quickly, before all of it could be dispelled by the manacles.

He drank, and by the end, he was drunk with the wizard's power.

When he heard the man's heart stop, Dalca withdrew, knowing no more power would be taken. Even if blood remained in his veins, it would be as lifeless as the man's eyes. There was almost a pleading look on the wizard's face. No doubt he had tried to organize his thoughts to cast a death curse on the monster that killed him, but the manacles and blood-loss had prevented that, as they always did.

Satisfied with the power he'd taken, Dalca removed the thorned manacles. After securing them in his pockets, he turned back to the room, where he found Schröter completing the ritual.

At the appointed time, Dalca's arm rose, and the flames rose with it. The drugged boy screamed just as an explosion rocked the basement of the hospital. Dust fell from the ceiling as an odd cry erupted from the child's lips, before being extinguished by the roar of the flames and the beat of the drums.

Schröter tensed where he knelt, poised and waiting for the god he had summoned.

But the boy did not fall into the central vat, as all the others had. Dalca studied the statue, and realized what had happened before anyone else.

Dalca quickly moved forward, which caused the captain to scowl. "Fürst, what are you—"

"We're done here," Dalca informed him.

"It is not yet finished!" Schröter hissed angrily. "We must try again.

Dalca looked up at the towering flames. "No, your statue is done," he said, pointing. The fires had obscured the corpse of the boy, so Dalca released the power he'd channeled into the conflagration. The flames of the inferno dipped, revealing the sagging molten arms of the statue that still held the sacrifice above the pit. They'd shifted slightly, leaving no space between them for the remains to fall through. "The bronze got too hot. It's not going to let the boy slide free, much less hold another."

Another explosion rocked the room, this one hitting hard enough to knock several of the smaller braziers and incense bowls over. Schröter staggered as a high-pitched whine pierced the air.

He and Dalca both looked to the statue, which was now leaning forward over the sacrificial pit. The heat had done more damage than they'd realized, and the entire thing was beginning to drip molten bronze into the cauldron. Liquid metal ran down the arms and over the corpse of the last sacrifice as the wings seemed to fold in on themselves. It was surreal to watch the brazen bull head dip down, as if consuming the body of the boy in its grasp.

When the third explosion hit, the waist of the statue finally broke, and the mass of molten metal descend into the burning embers.

Dalca seized Schröter by the elbow and began to drag him to the door. The drummers and assistants had all fled already, some before the final chant had even concluded.

The bald man tried to wrench his arm away, but Dalca's grip held fast. When that failed, the captain fell back on his supposed superiority. "Release me!"

"No," Dalca said as he dragged the man away. Another blast rocked the room, and a crossbeam at the far end collapsed. Schröter flinched at that, but Dalca kept both of them moving.

"But the ritual is not complete!" he screamed, gesturing back at the burning pit with his free hand. "Moloch has not come!"

"I don't think he will be," Dalca informed him. "Just try again next month."

"Impossible!" Schröter shouted in reply. "I'll have to wait a year at least, until the next Hot Moon!"

"Too bad," Dalca said as he pulled the man out into the hallway. The lights hanging overhead shook back and forth as another loud boom echoed across the facility. "If we can get you out of here, you can try again then."

"But Himmler will not give me _more time!_ " Schröter argued. "The Führer demanded results!"

"Fine, whatever," Dalca said, cutting him off as they reached the bottom of the steps leading out of the bunker. The looming form of Herzog was descending at speed, and Dalca shoved the sorcerer toward him. "Tell Herzog all about it. But we have to leave _now_."

If the captain was ignorant of the peril, the alpha of the lycanthropes in his service was not. Standing several inches over Dalca's own 6'2", the lieutenant looked nothing like a beastly berserker. His lantern jaw was smooth and clean shaven, and his dark eyes were intelligent and controlled despite feeling the pull from the full moon.

"Captain, we must leave," Herzog said, his voice softer and higher pitched than one would expect of such a large man. His form was lean, with taut muscle concealed by his sharp Nazi regalia. To outward appearances, he seemed like a gentle giant.

That was the furthest thing from the truth. Dalca had seen him and his Wolfsherzen in action. They were all savage brutes, men and women alike. And Herzog was their undisputed leader; his soft voice and cultured appearance concealed the killer lurking within.

"Very well, Scharführer," the captain replied readily enough. His sudden agreeableness caused Dalca's teeth to grind in irritation.

The three made their way up the stairs to the first floor, where the sound of battle echoed through the hospital. Gunfire erupted toward the front of the building, so they steered themselves toward the rear. Dalca quickly replaced the standard-magazine in his Luger with another, knowing he'd need all of the firepower he could get, what with wizards on the prowl.

Up ahead, the hanging light suddenly tilted toward the hallway to the left. Dalca's free hand blurred to his sword hilt, and the black blade was drawn by the time the Warden of the White Council came into view.

The man's eyes widened when he saw the dark weapon, and hastily began to draw his own as he thrust a crooked wand at Dalca.

Whatever spell the warden cast was met with a wall of black light that was enshrouded within an ultrascarlet nimbus. It was one of the trademark spells of Dalca's kind, available to only those of his bloodline. The spell of unraveling broke down the chemical bonds between elements, disintegrating everything it touched. The unnatural dark light was normally cast offensively as a bolt of lightning, but could be cast into a defensive shield as well.

Between the unraveling darkness and the scorching nimbus, the shield could withstand almost any physical or magical attack. Dalca heard an explosion on the far side of the shield he'd cast, but didn't waste time wondering at what it might have been. The dark barrier shimmered and disappeared as Dalca thrust his black blade through the backside, his arm moving at preternatural speed.

Caught off-guard, the warden didn't have time to finish drawing his own weapon. The tip of Dalca's sword pierced his belly as a look of shock blossomed across his face. Clearly unprepared for death, the wizard did not have a death curse prepared as Dalca wrenched the falchion up across the man's body.

The curving tip of the blade cleaved through him all the way up to the neck. Blood sprayed across the hallway as the wizard collapsed, coating Schröter from head to toe. Herzog and Dalca had both pivoted away to avoid the arcing fluid.

"Take his sword," Dalca ordered before licking the blood from his own. Power made the liquid tingle between his lips, and he made sure to store a little bit away in his reserves. As he cataloged the unique power of the wizard he'd slain, he spotted a second figure running forward. "I'll meet you in the tunnel."

Herzog obeyed without question, quickly sliding the warden's blade free from its scabbard before leading Schröter away.

"Eric!" the approaching woman screamed, seeing the dead warden at Dalca's feet. Her wide-eyed gaze rose to take in his sword, and her face paled as she realized who she faced. The woman's voice filled with a familiar tone of rage. "Dubhlainn!"

Along with the nickname came a wall of pure kinetic energy. The wizard's empty hand thrust forward, although Dalca noted that it was not bare. What looked like a slim gauntlet graced the fingers and back of her hand, no doubt her version of a spell foci.

Dalca braced himself for the spell she unleashed even as his dark shield sprung up before him. The air whipped around either side of it, cutting gouges into the walls and shattering the windows to the rooms on either side.

His shield protected him from the powerful onslaught of raw energy, but the cost of sustaining it was too great to simply leave in place. Especially when facing someone with an enchanted blade that could cut through any warding spell. Dalca released the shield with a thought, and the inky black wall disappeared in a flash.

With the shield gone, Dalca could see the curved warden sword coming. His own rose to meet it, and the two enchanted blades clashed together like a clarion bell.

The woman drew her weapon away, only to swipe again. She moved quickly for a mortal, but was much too slow to match Dalca's supernatural speed. He didn't press an attack, though. His eyes tracked her movements, anticipating each twitch for the tell that it was.

It was a delicate balance, fending off a wizard. A sword swipe would be followed by a spell, and Dalca had to be ready for both. In only a brief time, the woman must have flung half a dozen spells in his direction. He could feel the power she summoned, and knew from experience just how large of an attack it would invoke.

Red-rimmed shields of black light deflected wind bursts, fireballs, and kinetic blasts. And as each was turned away, Dalca would parry the subsequent sword thrust, only to shield against the next spell. They danced quickly, the warden and the beast, until it ended quite suddenly.

When an ascending crescent swipe with the blade left the woman's empty hand forward, Dalca knew she'd have a spell prepared. His shield sprung up just as three shimmering white spheres shot from her forward-thrusting palm. He angled the scarlet-trimmed wall to deflect the blasts to one side, and released it as soon as the spheres glanced off the surface.

With the shield blinking in and out of existence faster than expected, the warden wasn't ready when Dalca's left hand rose to train the Luger on her. Her own shield sprung into place as he took aim, the wall of pure energy enough to stop even his enchanted rounds.

But it wouldn't stop his black blade.

Distracted by the threat of the gun, and unused to fighting an enemy with a weapon as resourceful as her own, the warden reacted to the firearm rather than the sword that Dalca swung low. As the enchanted weapon rose, it cut through her shield as if it wasn't there. The spells on the blade unmade her own casting, and the woman's eyes widened one last time before the Luger round snapped into her forehead.

The enchanted bullet exploded, unleashing enough kinetic energy to cause her head and neck to erupt into a fountain of gore.

Dalca's shield popped in and out long enough to spare him from the messier bits. As she collapsed, he quickly holstered the Luger and retrieved her blade. The slim curving sword fit well enough into his own scabbard for the moment.

He made sure to sample her blood as well, savoring the fleeting sense of power that faded all too quickly upon death. There was enough remaining to memorize her unique magical signature, and then Dalca was heading back in the direction he'd come.

As Dalca ran down the hall, the hanging light overhead bobbed as Mara leapt from it. After signaling Dalca, she'd watched as he'd killed two wardens of the White Council in less than two minutes. When she alighted on his shoulder, her grin was fierce and proud.

"Excellent work, my lord," she said as Dalca ran to catch up with the others. "Another two to add to the collection."

"I told you not to call me that," Dalca replied by rote. It was an exchange the two had repeated countless times over the years whenever the water vâlvă lapsed. "How many more?"

"Two more wardens, and the Bad One," she said, her joy at seeing him kill battle mages fading with that last proclamation.

"Shit," Dalca hissed as he cut down a hallway. "Where is he?"

"To the rear."

"Can we get to the…" Dalca began, only to trail off when he spotted Herzog and Schröter up ahead. They'd stopped at one of the doors that led outside, rather than making a break for the brick outbuilding that led to the escape tunnel.

When Dalca reached them, he could see why.

Their destination was a good thirty yards outside of the hospital. Knowing that Allied forces were growing ever closer along the western front, Dalca and Herzog had made sure to plan for an expedited departure. The escape route lay in an outbuilding, where a trap door concealed the stairs leading down into the sewer system.

In the event of an attack, Herzog's Wolfsherzen were to secure the path. While some would aide in the defense of the facility, the majority would make sure their pack leader and the man he reported to could make good with their escape.

Herzog's pack of lycanthropes was the largest Dalca had ever seen. Counting twenty-four including the leader himself, the Lieutenant had made a fierce fighting unit that benefited from the ferocity and strength offered to their kind.

Fueled by the full moon, each lycanthrope was a force unto themselves. Their reflexes were beyond anything human, and their physical prowess was remarkable. They didn't transform into beasts like weres, but they were far more savage than their shape-shifting counterparts. Old legends said they were berserkers that possessed the soul of a wolf rather than the body of one, and from what Dalca had seen, they weren't wrong. Dalca knew that one the Wolfsherzen had killed half a dozen Allied soldiers in twice as many seconds.

And that had been one of the _least_ remarkable members of Herzog's pack.

But in a world full of magical creatures, they were far from the most dangerous.

Outside, a dozen of the deadly lycanthropes littered the ground before a single mage.

He wasn't that tall, all things considered. The wizard looked less like an impenetrable wall and more like a whiskey barrel. And yet as Dalca watched, the man gestured with a dark staff in one hand, and three charging lycanthropes all lurched into the air, grasping at their necks.

The three hovered in place as the short wizard strode forward. As he made his way toward to the central door at the rear, his unruly beard and bald pate was revealed. His eyes were narrowed, doubling the wrinkles on his aged face.

He paid the struggling lycanthropes no mind as he walked past them. Dalca could see that each was grasping at their neck, as if some invisible force was choking them to death while dangling them in midair.

If it had been any other Council wizard, the Wolfsherzen would have been spared a death by magical means.

Unfortunately, it was no mere wizard they faced that night.

One lycanthrope had the good sense to reach for the firearm at her hip. Her Luger cleared the holster and pointed blindly after the departing wizard, the slim barrel shaking as the fierce warrior tried to concentrate on both killing the enemy and struggling to breath.

Without casting a look back, the wizard twitched the dark staff in his knobby hand.

All three lycanthropes died as their necks snapped.

When the wizard entered the building, the three collapsed to the ground.

"Go," Dalca urged quietly. "Now."

A low growl was emanating from Herzog's throat, a rare display of the beast lurking within the man. Dalca could see the madness creeping in at the corners of his eyes, and knew he wanted to avenge his pack-mates. As their alpha, it was all he could think of in that moment.

But if Dalca had learned one thing over the years, it was this:

No-one stands against the Blackstaff.

" _Go_ ," he repeated, shoving the lycanthrope. The man turned on him, his lips peeled back in a snarl as his lantern jaw tensed. But Dalca's gaze was hard. "Do your duty."

There was a quick and brutal war in Herzog's mind, as the two disparate thoughts fought it out. But his training overrode his beast, and the lycanthrope turned to lead Schröter out the side door and toward the small brick building. Dalca was on their heals, grateful that he wouldn't have to put the man down.

Letting the other two pull ahead, Dalca kept any eye out behind them. It seemed the wizards weren't attacking with the Allied forces, which meant this wasn't a full incursion across enemy lines. There was no perimeter to worry about, but escaping through the tunnel would have avoided even that.

As Herzog wrenched open the door to the outbuilding, the door they'd exited through exploded outward, the windows around it shattering under an incredible force.

Dalca turned to face the Blackstaff as he charged out of the main building. The man's gaze was dark, and grew darker when he recognized the black blade Dalca bore.

"GO!" Dalca roared at the other two. Mara shot after them, knowing that if Dalca was laughably outmatched by the Blackstaff, she was even more so. They all disappeared into the brick shed, and Dalca heard the sound of the floor hatch being swung open. He listened to the sound of their steps retreating down the hidden stairs, even as he watched the furious wizard charge.

When he heard the others reach the tunnel, Dalca started running backward. He regretted having picked up the fallen warden's sword, if only because it now meant he had to carry his own blade. He had a plan, but it'd be risky while holding an enchanted sword that could cut Dalca just as well as it'd cut the warden's shield.

He was only a few steps outside of the building when the Blackstaff thrust his namesake in Dalca's direction, and a wave of unrivaled power ripped through the air.

Dalca's hands rose before him, bearing the black blade as if it could ward off the spell. It wouldn't, but it allowed him to focus his shield, and the black wall of light appeared just moments before the Blackstaff's power crashed into it.

The shield cracked and splintered as Dalca was thrown backward. His momentum carried him through the gaping door of the shed. The broken edges of light along his ward spell sizzled as they struck the door-frame.

Dalca liked to think that the spell was powerful. The wood disappeared as his shield passed through it, leaving a cloud of particles in its wake. Harder materials didn't break down quite as quickly as magic and flesh, but the wood didn't stand a chance.

With one of his most powerful spells, Dalca destroyed the door-frame.

With very little effort at all, the Blackstaff destroyed the building.

Brick walls burst apart under the wizard's blast. Ceiling joists shattered into splinters as the spell struck with hurricane winds. The entire building rocked and bowed under the force of the Blackstaff's will, before it all came crashing down on Dalca. Several tons of brick and mortar and tile collapsed around him as he fell backward.

But his aim was true, and as Dalca fell, it was into the recessed stairwell.

He hit hard, the impact enough to drive the air from his lungs. He rolled backwards down the stairs, losing track of his sword edge as it tumbled about. The air filled with dust and debris as the building descended with him, and when he finally rolled to a stop, bricks cascaded across him.

"Shit," he groaned as he pushed himself up. He'd managed to hold on to his sword, but he hadn't controlled it. A gash had been cut into his left bicep, and his own blood trickled down the edge of the blade.

"I've got it," Mara said as she soared down the tunnel toward him. Her tiny clawed fingers touched Dalca's neck tenderly as he stumbled to his feet. He could feel her water magics working their way through him as he began to weave his way down the tunnel. The way behind him was blocked by debris, but the Blackstaff was no fool; he'd realize they'd fled to the outbuilding for a reason, and he could clear the path in no time.

Dalca charged down the tunnel at breathtaking speed. By the time he reached the far end, the wound in his shoulder had closed. He charged up the steps and through the building well beyond the hospital's grounds, and then out into the sparse forest beyond. He could see the other two up ahead, the more resilient Herzog all but dragging their charge.

There was a get-away car waiting not far from there, and Dalca ran after the others with purpose. But a sound behind him caused his pulse to spike, and he twisted around as he skidded to a stop. "Go!" he shouted at Mara. The tiny fairy obeyed, zooming after the others as Dalca turned back. Power surged into Dalca's empty hand as black sparks snapped between his fingers.

It took him only a moment to realize that the Blackstaff had not caught up with them. He started to sigh with relief, only to have his breath freeze in his throat as something lurched awkwardly within the far shadows.

As it grew closer, Dalca's eyes trained on a small figure in the distance. It stood far beyond the escape tunnel exit, all the way across a street back at the edge of the town. Even Dalca's superior eyes could barely spot it from that far.

It was short like the wizard, but much slimmer than his burly form. Its hands appeared to be empty as it stumbled forward, its movements oddly disjointed. Dalca tensed, knowing that nothing human could have caught up with them that quickly on foot.

When the figure stepped into the light, Dalca stared.

Three black eyes, each rimmed in amber light, stared right back.

Dalca blinked, unable to move. The body shone under the streetlight, the molten bronze having cooled into a new metallic flesh over the form of the last sacrifice. When it moved, it was with stiff, jerky movements, as if the joints were not free to twist and bend beneath the cold metal.

It was impossible. Dalca had watched the body burn, the flesh incinerated by magically fueled fires. He had watched as it had been doused in molten metal, before being buried in the fiery cauldron beneath the mass of the bronze idol. The sacrifice could not have lived.

And yet the boy stood there, his three glowing eyes fixated on Dalca.

The streetlight overhead popped, pulsing brightly before burning out.

When the light was gone, so too was the boy.

Dalca heard the car start in the distance. The others had reached it, and were prepared to leave him if he didn't catch up. Mara might slow them for a moment, but the fairy was bound to aid them just as Dalca was. There was little she could do to prevent them from leaving.

After taking one last look toward the empty stretch of sidewalk beneath the streetlight, Dalca turned and fled.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

 _Present Day_

"Why are we going to Germany?"

As Dalca hung up the phone, he looked at the girl walking into the library, her blue eyes filled with curiosity. The navy-skinned water vâlvă glided in after her to settle on a side table. A custom made lounge chair resided there, perfectly sized for the tiny fairy.

Dalca hadn't been brave enough to tell her it'd come from a doll house catalog.

By way of response, Dalca tossed the newspaper toward the girl. It was just a careless toss, one that would fall well short of her reach. But the girl was ready, and the paper came to a halt in mid-air, before an invisible force carried it to her outstretched hand. Dalca was pleased at the kinetic display, particularly so because he'd barely seen her lips moving that time.

With the paper in hand, the girl began to peruse the article on top as she settled into another chair. Dalca gave her a minute, and was ready for her questions when her head rose. "Was this some sort of ritual?" she asked as she skimmed the story.

"So it would seem," Dalca confirmed, his head nodding slightly.

One thing Jean Wilson had always been was quick, in body and spirit, but most importantly, in mind. Rather than questioning him further, her eyes dropped back to the newsprint. She'd reason out what she could, and ask only what was necessary. "What's an ewe?"

"A sheep," Dalca replied, not surprised she hadn't known. At seventeen, the girl knew a lot. But her education had been far from formal, and she hadn't grown up anywhere near a farm. She'd been born and raised in a small town in Canada that suffered from a distinct lack of livestock. There she'd remained, spending the first sixteen years of her miserable life wishing she was anywhere else.

That wish had come true almost a year and a half prior, when a job had brought Dalca to her town. He'd been ordered to take care of a breach in reality, and eliminate anyone that had been involved. He'd fulfilled his orders completely and exactingly, save for one exception.

Jean had most definitely been involved, but had been spared. Dalca's reasons were far from altruistic, and in fact were decidedly self-serving. He'd given the girl a choice: die, or agree to serve him.

While it might seem like an easy decision, there were few that would choose the latter. Especially knowing what Dalca was, as Jean did.

But the girl had grown up in a broken home with few friends and fewer attachments. Her sole pleasure in life had come from dabbling in magic, picking up what she could from the internet. She'd spent what paltry money she had toward putting together a 'brew kit', as she'd called it. Nothing more than a cheap travel trunk, she'd filled it with the supplies the internet had told her a witch would need.

When the smoke had settled, Jean knew there was nothing left for her in White River, Ontario. Her father was dead, as were several classmates and their families. As the sole survivor, Jean would have been the lead suspect in their disappearances, and likely would have faced prison for crimes she hadn't committed.

Not that she would have met that fate. Had she not chosen to join Dalca, she'd be just as dead as the others.

But knowing there was no-one to help her, and nothing tying her down, she'd accepted Dalca's offer for tutelage in the dark arts, in return for a regular donation of power.

Seventeen months later, the girl hardly ever touched her old brew kit. Dalca had given her what she needed for her own private lab, and instructed her on what he knew of mortal magics.

Which, given his history of killing wizards and absorbing their knowledge of magic as well as their power, was not insignificant.

Jean looked up as she finished the article, placing the paper to one side. Before she could begin to question him, Dalca held up a hand. "Summarize it for me."

The girl nodded, and considered her words. "A film crew was preparing for a shoot in one of the abandoned wings of a hospital in… Beelitz," she said, after checking the paper for the name. "When they were exploring the grounds, they came across a man, who fled when they saw him. After his departure, they found a ritual site and cages filled with what were most likely sacrificial offerings."

Her face had twisted with displeasure at the last. "What are your thoughts?" he asked.

The girl frowned. "Well, most of it was fairly typical," she replied. "Animals prepared to be slaughtered or offered up, similar to what… what we did."

By we, she meant those dead kids back in her hometown. One of them had gotten their hands on a book of magical spells. Many of the rituals had involved creating thaumaturgic links with the animals, to draw on their spiritual power and give the practitioners specific traits the creatures possessed.

Those rituals hadn't required the death of the animals, though, and despite spending over a year living with a monster, Jean was still a little squeamish about some types of magic. She had no problem working with animals, but didn't seem to have it in herself to harm them.

"Similar enough," Dalca confirmed. "What else?"

"Well," the girl said, her eyes flickering down. "There was also a child in one of the cages."

Dalca nodded. He left her to it, and she continued. "It says there was a large cauldron with seven sections. Probably one for each… offering," she finished, her already pale face growing considerably lighter as she thought about the child being killed.

"The article doesn't specify, but I'm willing to bet the cauldron had been divided into something akin to a Star of David," Dalca explained softly as his eyes grew distant. "Given that it was found in Germany, it's not terribly surprising they omitted that detail, even if they'd be wrong about the significance."

Jean blinked at that. "Why do you say that?"

Dalca assumed she wasn't referring to their omission. "Because I've seen it before."

The girl sat back and pondered his words. She didn't seem surprised that he'd seen a ritual sacrifice of a human. She knew what he was, and what he did to survive. Instead, she moved beyond the obvious.

"You think it's tied to the ritual you saw before," she concluded, to which he nodded. "When was that?"

Dalca took a moment to do the math. "Almost seventy years ago."

Jean had finished enough schooling to know what had been happening seventy years prior. Her eyes widened. "You saw this during World War II?"

He didn't think she was amazed that he was that old, but there might have been a sliver of surprise. They hadn't spent much time talking of his past, and he'd never been specific on just how old he was.

"I did," Dalca confirmed. "In fact, I participated in the ritual."

There was the briefest flicker of alarm as she realized what he meant, but it faded behind a facade of apathetic indifference. As if she didn't care that he'd willingly helped kill a child.

Dalca thought it best that she not learn just how many.

"So why are we going to Germany?" she repeated, choosing to ignore the direction the topic had turned.

"I need to confirm whether or not this is the same thing I saw before," he replied. "And if so, put an end to it."

Jean's eyes brightened at that, and Dalca almost sighed. No doubt she hoped that her monstrous mentor was looking to right past wrongs, and reform his ways. She'd been oh-so-subtly trying to influence him in such ways, just as he had tried to influence her.

Dalca wasn't sure if either of them had succeeded in anything.

"When are we going?" she asked, sitting up.

"When is the full moon?" he countered.

The girl didn't have to think. Such things were constantly on her mind as she performed her own rituals. "Tomorrow night."

"Then there's not much time. We'll leave now," Dalca said as he reached for the phone again. "Bring everything you think you'll need. I'll reserve a flight."

Jean was up in a flash and heading for the door. Before she was through it, Dalca added. "Full combat scenario."

The girl nodded, and then ran off to pack her things. Dalca turned to the tiny fairy on the miniature lounger, who gave him a toothy smile. "She thinks she's gotten to you."

"Let her believe it," Dalca replied as the phone rang. "She'll learn soon enough."

* * *

Their flight touched down in Beelitz late that afternoon. They could have driven, but the shorter flight gave them time to prepare. As the sun was just beginning to set in the west, the three climbed out of their rental car outside of the Beelitz Heilstatten Sanatorium.

"Finally," Jean muttered as she removed a steel shackle from around one wrist. The sharp metal spikes glinted in the fading light as she tucked the thorned manacle into a pocket. "You know, I don't need this anymore."

Old scars adorned the wrist, left from when she'd had less control over her magic. That could be considerably troublesome for someone like Dalca, who often traveled by plane.

Mortal magic tended to have irksome effects on the environment around the caster. Spoilt milk, gruesome boils, and other tedious but ultimately harmless side-effects had cursed his apprentices over the years. But the latest, an acute incompatibility with technology, was more than an inconvenience. It was debilitating in the modern age; even more so when a temper tantrum at 36,000 feet could result in engines dying.

Such things were of limited concern for someone of Jean's ability. She still wasn't Council level, but her power was growing. As it did, so too did the danger of it causing unfortunate accidents.

Which is why, after their first flight together experienced a single engine failure, Dalca had made her start wearing at least one manacle whenever they traveled. She'd protested about having to spend hours at a time wearing the things, but after he'd reminded her that _he_ could survive a plane crash — whereas _she_ could not — she'd agreed to wear them.

"You're the one that picked the B.M.W. with all the bells and whistles," Dalca replied, arching an eyebrow as he headed for the trunk of the SUV. Mara alighted on his shoulder as he went.

"It's not like they had a jalopy on the lot," Jean shot back as she rubbed at her wrist.

"True," Dalca admitted. He opened the back hatch, and pulled the long hardshell case toward him. "But you specifically asked for one with built-in WiFi."

"If I have to be shackled anyway, I might as well enjoy it," the girl replied as he opened the case and withdrew a small arsenal.

The first thing out was a thigh holster that bore his spell-worked Luger. Enchantments on the barrel made the gun all but silent; something that movies and television had done with their fictionalized version of suppressors. In the real world, suppressors did little to actually silence the gun; they merely dampened what noise they could by decreasing the velocity of the round. Dalca's magics made no such sacrifice for much better effect.

The customized holster contained slots for several backup magazines, which he slid into place after securing the straps. Last into the holster was his black bladed stiletto. The knife's tip was razor sharp, as were the two edges on what was nearly a perfectly rounded blade.

Lastly, Dalca strapped his sword and scabbard over his left hip. Both were black through and through. Dalca drew several inches of the dark blade out of habit, before triggering a spell in both it and the sheath. The light seemed to shift and bend around them, until both disappeared from sight.

When he was ready, Dalca turned to watch as Jean finished preparing the last of her gear.

Despite her protestations, the girl was very much what Dalca had heard referred to as a 'goth chick'. She preferred dark clothing, hair and nails, and was naturally pale enough to pass for a vampire. As she'd begun to build her own arsenal of magical weapons, she'd done little to dissuade Dalca of his initial impression of her.

One of the first things he'd had her work on were defensive spells. Dalca didn't have to worry much about such things, but as a feeble human, Jean was particularly vulnerable to everything from guns to thumb tacks.

He'd had her select a number of items that she'd be responsible for enchanting, and taught her what she needed to know. The spells constantly needed to be refreshed, but they offered protections that no mundane materials could hope to match.

Predictably, the girl had chosen an all-black ensemble. Black jeans and a black leather jacket were joined by black boots, gloves, and what she called a 'hoodie'. It looked like a hooded sweatshirt to Dalca, but for some reason the girl insisted on calling it by that ridiculous name.

She'd learned quickly that it was nearly impossible to maintain spells on jeans and cotton. The leather of the jacket, gloves and boots held up better, and only needed to be touched up now and again. Everything else would be all but useless after a single tumble in the washer.

To help with that, Dalca had supplied her with cleansing spells to help keep the clothes fresh. Additionally, she only wore her combat gear when they expected trouble. Between infrequent use and the cleansing spells, Jean somehow managed to protect herself while not smelling like a dirty hamper.

Dalca waited as she donned all of it, before adding the more offensive items of her armament. A ring went onto each finger, and a hoop bracelet was secured around her left wrist. She wrapped a black choker around her neck that Dalca wasn't entirely sure served any function, and then slid a few choice weapons into several pockets.

After what seemed like a good half hour of preparing for a night out on the town, she finally got around to attaching her sword to her belt.

It was a short cavalry blade, a single edged weapon with a slight curve toward the tip. The sword thrummed with magical enchantments as she hung it at her hip. Once it was in place, Jean grasped it and muttered a command. " _Pusummu šēssu_."

As she spoke, Dalca felt her power reach out to the blade, to activate one of the enchantments on it. The air shimmered again, and when it settled, her weapon had disappeared just as Dalca's had.

When she was done, she turned to Dalca, only to find him feigning sleep. Mara was doing likewise, draped across his shoulder as if she'd passed out while waiting.

"Let's go," Jean snapped as she smacked his arm.

Seeming to start awake, Dalca closed the hatch and started after the girl, who was quickly making her way across the hospital grounds. Mara stretched, and he wondered for a second if she'd really fallen asleep.

"Hold up," he said when he finally caught up with the girl. "Parts of this place are still in use."

Jean nodded, and the two waited for a moment to make sure no-one was in sight. Assured they were alone, the girl made a series of gestures. " _Napšu pusummu_."

Dalca waited as the girl's spell spread out, creating a sphere around the two of them. He couldn't see it when looking forward, but the barest hint of it could be detected out of the corner of his eye. It was all-encompassing, and he knew that if anyone _had_ been watching, they would have seen the two disappear.

"Nicely done," he commended her as they began to make their way down the path.

Rather than replying, the girl simply nodded. Her concentration was on maintaining the veil around them, something she'd had only moderate success with while in motion.

Leaving her to it, Dalca led them across the grounds, toward the abandoned wings where the ritual site had been found.

Dalca had studied up on the hospital on the flight from Copenhagen, and was familiar with its odd history. The facility had seen a lot of action over the decades, including treating a man that would one day go on to become the Führer. During the war, it had served as a military hospital, and was later procured by the Soviets during their occupation of East Germany.

Parts of the hospital were still in use, but several wings had been shuttered over the years. It was those untouched sections that sometimes drew the attention of movie and television crews, who brought the older facilities to life for the big and small screens.

Just such a crew had been the group to discover the ritual sight. Some movie about the second World War had been scheduled to use a wing, and the site coordinator had wanted to see what was available to work with. They and some others had wandered away from the designated area, and had come across the cauldron and still-breathing sacrifices.

As the two now approached the remnants of the old building, with the setting sun casting the world in unsettling hues, Dalca had to wonder if the movie was meant to be a horror film.

The place was decrepit, with most of its windows broken and open to the elements. Those on the first floor had been boarded up long ago, certainly long enough to let the boards themselves begin to rot. The old-world brick architecture, once beautiful, had been left to decay with time.

Vines climbed up the two story walls, contrasting darkly with the faded bricks. They looked more like varicose veins protruding from the building, and the gaping windows more like dark liver spots pock-marking ancient flesh.

The building hadn't seen use in decades, and looked exactly like the kind of place that would-be sorcerers would choose to perform their dark rituals.

"Fuck this place," Jean said softly as she rubbed her arms absently. Her gaze was fixed on the blighted sanatorium. "It gives me the creeps just standing outside."

"This place has a dark past," Dalca explained. "Such histories often cling to the world, and are perceived in ways we barely understand." He gestured at the decayed building. "People didn't abandon this place without reason."

Mara made a contemplative sound on Dalca's shoulder, and he turned to see what she might be thinking. But despite his interest, the water vâlvă kept her thoughts to herself.

"Let's find a way in," he said, leading them away from the main entrance. A set of doors had been installed, perhaps even that very day, with fresh signs to keep people out. Getting through them wouldn't be a problem, but not without leaving evidence behind.

The three made their way around, until Dalca located a suitable spot. One board over a first story window was loose enough to pry up without breaking, and he pulled himself in before offering a hand down to Jean. Once the girl was inside, he replaced the board, leaving them enclosed in a dark room.

As soon as they were in, Jean released the spell that had concealed them. Dalca could smell the sweat on her skin, the evidence of her exertions at holding the spell for so long.

" _Iškūrtu_ ," Jean muttered as she held a hand aloft. In response to the spell, one of the rings she wore began to glow with a soft light. The small crystal sphere clutched by a silver dragon's claw shone bright enough for the two to see by.

Dalca didn't need it, but the girl didn't have his abilities. He let her lead them through the building, content with letting her think for herself.

"Seriously, this place is a fucking nightmare," Jean grumbled as they made their way down a grungy hallway.

Leaves and debris had blown into the place through second story windows, enough to cover everything in filth. Mold and mildew clung to the old hospital tiles, and the floor was coated with an inch of dust that looked like it hadn't been disturbed in centuries.

They made sure not to touch anything as they went through. Dalca wasn't worried about leaving fingerprints; Mara had already given their fingers her usual treatment, which left the skin smooth and unidentifiable. He was more concerned with the girl getting tetanus from the rusted railings.

When Jean seemed unsure of where to go, Dalca took the lead. Her light bobbed behind him as he sniffed at the air. His olfactory sense wasn't the greatest of those he had, but it was good enough to lead him to where mortals had recently tread.

They finally came across a hall where the dust and debris had been swept aside by the tread of countless police, as they'd worked at investigating the unexpected crime scene. Dalca followed in their footsteps, which led down a dark stairwell to the basement.

"Because of _course_ it had to be in the basement," Jean sighed.

"You don't expect dark mages to do their work in the light of day, do you?" Dalca responded as he started down the steps. Time and dust had made them surprisingly smooth, and he heard Jean slip twice before they reached the lowest level.

"It's just so cliché," she replied. "Setting up a ritual site for human sacrifice in an abandoned sanitarium? One that looks like it belongs in a horror film?"

Her observation made Dalca smile, but it was Mara who replied. "There's more to this place than it seems."

Both of them looked to her in surprise. "What do you mean?" Dalca asked as they made their way down an even darker hallway, one where the cobwebs hadn't been broken by the police, so much as pushed aside.

"Don't you recognize it?" the water fairy replied.

Dalca paused, and reached out into the world with his intangible senses. Jean did the same, or at least pretended to do so. Her sensitivity and empathy wasn't the greatest.

As his consciousness touched the world around him, Dalca found himself shivering. There was a darkness to the place that he'd neglected to pick up on. One that had nothing to do with any questionable mortal history. Nothing to do with the stains left behind after human death and trauma.

"There's a ley line here," he observed softly.

"A dark one," Mara confirmed, her tiny head bobbing gently. "One that we've seen before."

Dalca started to ask her what she meant, but Jean's startled gasp broke his attention. He turned to her, and saw her looking in an open portal to one side of the hallway. The door was still creaking open from where she'd pushed on it.

"Oh my God," she whispered. Dalca could see the whites of her eyes in her spell-worked light. He moved up beside her, and looked upon a massive pile of bones.

What had once been a hospital storage room had become a bone-yard. It seemed someone had dumped hundreds of bones in one corner, until the pile had become so large that it cascaded halfway across the room. Some had crumbled to dust beneath those on top, while others had collapsed into piles of ash.

A few were obviously human, although most of them were not. There were animal skulls mixed in with human rib cages. Small curling horns seemed to be wrapped around a pile of skeletal wings. Hooves and hands were left jutting from the pile, discarded carelessly by whomever had dumped them together.

Despite the differences, there was one thing that each bone had in common.

They were all burned and blackened from fire.

Perhaps the girl had been drawn to the lingering energies that such collections retained; perhaps it'd just been the police tape put into place over the doorway. Either way, it was clear that the police hadn't finished with the site yet. Which meant they needed to be extra careful.

Dalca turned, not needing to see anything more in the room. He could feel their destination calling to him from further down the hall. An almost familiar darkness seemed to be waiting.

He continued on, leaving the girl for the moment. Mara was silent on his shoulder, clearly sensing the same thing he was. They walked until they reached a gaping door marked off with more police tape, where he found the ritual site waiting within.

Cages still lined one side of the room. Their doors were left open, their contents evacuated when the police had stormed the place. Traces of dried blood remained inside, although Dalca had to wonder at the age of it, to be so dusty and crisp.

The rest of the room was empty. There were scuff marks on the floor where boxes had once stood, and he could almost make out circular markings where short columns might have surrounded the sunken cauldron in the center of the room.

Dalca's eyes fixated on the segmented pit, with its all-too-familiar star pattern set within its rim. It was recessed within the floor, the ground beneath it having been dug out to accommodate the structure. Burnt remnants of coal and wood remained in the sections, none of which had been lit recently.

"This isn't a new site," Dalca said, stating the obvious. "Someone's been doing this for quite some time."

"So it would seem," Mara replied softly. "They're clearly trying to accomplish what Schröter could not."

Dalca shivered. "So it would seem," he echoed.

"Is this it then?" Jean asked as she appeared at the door. Dalca looked up to her, and noted the nervous look on her face. "The ritual site?"

"Yes."

"It's…" she started, looking for the words. "It's so… cold."

Dalca studied her, and noted the goosebumps springing along her neck. Jean's entire body shivered, as if an arctic wind had pierced the walls and blown across her bare skin.

Turning back to the cauldron, Dalca reached out with his own senses, to see what he felt about the place. But all he could detect was the same cloying darkness that he'd felt before. The same that had drawn him down the hallway. It didn't feel cold, or evil, or malicious.

It just felt… familiar.

"How long—" he began, only to cut himself short as Mara tensed on his shoulder. Before he could ask, the fairy disappeared in a blur.

Dalca turned to Jean as he cocked his head to one side and listened. After a moment, he heard what Mara must have sensed.

Someone was approaching.

He was in motion before Jean even realized Mara was gone. Grabbing her arm, Dalca pulled her further into the room, to the side wall. She was smart enough not to make a noise. Instead, she released the illumination spell, plunging them into nearly complete darkness. When they were across the room, Dalca motioned to her, and the girl nodded.

" _Napšu pusummu_ ," she whispered, and the familiar sensation of her magic rolled across Dalca's skin as the girl's bubble veil surrounded them. It was finished just as the voices arrived, and a new light reached into the dark room from the hall.

"…place feels like a nightmare," a young male voice stated, sounding unsettled.

"Understandably so," an older man replied as the two arrived at the door to the room.

A small sphere of light floated between the two, revealing them as they looked about the space. Dalca studied them as they studied the cauldron, the younger one stepping forward to get a good look.

"This doesn't look new," he observed as he knelt to a crouch. He was indeed young, perhaps only a few years older than Jean herself. His curly hair was dark and cut fashionably long, ending just above his shoulders. He was lean with subtle muscle, which was made more apparent as he twisted to look back at the other man, drawing the gray cloak he wore tight across his chest.

The second man likewise wore a dull slate fabric around his shoulders. He was considerably older, easily passing for his late fifties or early sixties, had he been any mundane human. His white hair was cut short, and as he stepped forward, his hazel eyes were narrow as he looked down upon the ritual pit. "No, it does not," he agreed, his voice ruff and haggard.

Jean gasped as she realized that she was only a dozen feet away from two Wardens of the White Council.

Dalca's head twisted, an odd sensation rushing over him at the sound of the older man's voice. There was something familiar about the him, but he couldn't quite place it. The face was lined with wrinkles, and the man's body was thick with aged muscle. Dalca found himself stepping forward to get a better look, some part of him entirely thrown by the man's presence.

Jean's reaching fingertips snagged Dalca's shirt just before he stepped out of the veil. Dalca froze, realizing that he'd almost given them away. A very rare mistake for him. But he couldn't shake the surreal feeling.

"So how long have they been at it?" the boy asked the older man. "You said the ritual had to be done on a full moon?"

"Not just any full moon," the old man replied as he walked around the cauldron. "A June moon. A Hot Moon."

The man's head turned as he passed by Dalca, as if sensing something just out of sight. Dalca didn't breath until he was past. He knew he should retreat to the wall, but he found that he couldn't step back. His gaze was fixed on the old warden, as if drawn to him.

"So, you mean once a year?" the young man asked as he stood, brushing his hands together.

The old man failed to reply. His eyes had narrowed even further as he'd circled the room, until he came to a stop across the way. His lips were pursed, and it looked as if he were lost in thought.

"Wagner," the boy said, snapping his fingers together. "Hey, Wags, you in there?"

The old man grunted in reply, his attention on the cauldron. He reached his weathered hands out beside him, palms up as he felt at the aura of the pit. When they were spread wide enough, he closed his eyes. Something was mumbled between his lips, and then his eyes opened, swiveling to fix on Dalca.

Dalca froze at the sight of the man before him, arms spread wide in crucifixion form. His hazel eyes bore holes into Dalca as the two stared at each other not just from across the cauldron, but across time itself.

"Fürst," the old man growled as his face flushed with fury.

"Sunshine?" Dalca asked, stunned, as he finally recognized the warden.

The same that he'd killed in another hospital basement so many years ago. He hadn't seen the boy under the wrinkles of age, but the hate in the voice had pierced through the veil of time.

"Your turn to die, Dubhlainn!"

The long dead Warden of the White Council of Wizards snarled out a word, and Dalca could do nothing but stare as the raw power of the mage rushed at him.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

A battering ram of pure will and righteous rage slammed into Dalca, hurtling him back as his mind tried to understand what the hell had just happened.

He hit the wall behind him with enough force to break through the brick, and didn't slow down until he was halfway across the neighboring room. His body tumbled across the vacant space, until he came to an abrupt stop against the far wall. The impact was enough to crack the tile, and an avalanche of shards and debris fell around him.

Dalca slid to a knee as he tried to blink away the shock of seeing Wagner alive. He looked up, and found himself in the room containing the bone-yard. He began to rise just as the furious warden burst through the hole he'd created. The wizard's arm rose to unleash another attack before Dalca could push himself to his feet.

" _Chúnlì!_ " the wizard screamed as power burst forth a second time.

Putting aside his confusion, Dalca willed a wall of dark light into being. The rectangular shield appeared just in time, and was angled to deflect the blast to one side. Shrapnel burst out as the force shattered more tile before ricocheting all across the room. Porcelain and bone went flying in a sudden whirlwind as the wizard continued to charge forward.

Dalca dismissed the dark shield as he drew his sword, the cusped falchion whipping free of its scabbard in record time. It rose to meet the downward swipe of the wizard's blade. Wagner was left-handed, and Dalca hated fighting right-to-left. He began to pivot away, but Wagner's free hand swung up in an upper cut. The strike was nowhere close, but Dalca's head snapped up as a kinetic force rocketed up at his jaw. " _Lênđình công!_ "

The blow was enough to send Dalca reeling backwards, and only an absent-minded parry prevented the wizard from taking his head off with another swipe. He could feel the power thrumming along Wagner's sword as strike after strike fell, the double-bladed weapon causing Dalca's sword to ring. If his blade hadn't been enchanted against kinetic transfer, he was sure it would have been vibrating like a jackhammer.

As it was, it was nearly too much for Dalca to bear. His hand was growing numb from the magical backlash from the blades striking each other, and he could feel tingles working their way up his arm. His responses were growing slower and slower, and he knew the wizard might very well land a blow before long.

Thankfully Wagner seemed to have exhausted his primary magical reserves in the initial strikes. He was conjuring up another spell in his right hand, and Dalca knew he needed to counter before the wizard could unleash it.

While Dalca parried another blow with his right hand, his left went to work. Extending his index and middle fingers, he snapped his hand toward Wagner's sword arm. The power he channeled through his limb burst from his joined fingers as a thin stream of magma. As it hit the air, the outer surface began to cool into a darker igneous rock, but the core remained liquid and malleable.

With a flick of his wrist, Dalca coiled the lava line around the wizard's forearm. Wagner grunted in surprise, and was just beginning to channel a shield to protect himself when Dalca jerked the line across his body.

Wagner's latest sword strike swung wide as his arm was wrenched aside. Dalca ducked beneath the swooshing blade as he slashed his own. Blood spurted as Dalca tore the blade along the wizard's forearm, leaving a deep furrow in his flesh.

The warden howled in pain, but the cry was more furious than agonized. It had been a shallow cut, and did little lasting damage. Before Dalca could bring the sword around again for something more permanent, the wizard's right hand thrust across his bowed body, unleashing the spell he'd been preparing.

A whirlwind sprung up around Dalca, sending him flying across the room. It was no simple swirl of air, but a violent torrent of kinetic force. It was enough to spin him about, head over heels and back again before slinging him against the far wall, only to rebound as the wave of energy ricocheted. The lava line snapped under the pressure, and Dalca felt his sword slip from his grasp as he spiraled into another wall, before falling into the heap of bones.

It took Dalca a moment to determine which direction was up, but he eventually managed to wobble to his feet. Bone shards rattled across the pile as he dug himself out. He took a quick inventory, and was relieved to find his flesh intact. His clothes weren't so lucky, and he found them ripped where the kinetic gusts had torn at him. He could just make out his skin as it shifted to a more human coloring. The thicker hide and darker hue had sprung forth reflexively while under attack, and was now disappearing as he looked across the room toward Wagner.

The wizard had taken the moment to address his own condition. As Dalca watched, a tightly wound bundle of cloth unraveled on its own and spun about Wagner's forearm. The bandage cinched tight across the gash, the white fabric quickly staining red. There was a slight glow to it, as the magics worked into it did their best to hold the wizard together.

Wagner stared across the dark room, his hatred alone almost enough to illuminate the space as it burned brightly in his eyes. But after a moment, Dalca realized that was simply his imagination. The glowing orb had trailed after the wizard, drifting into the room through the hole in the wall.

"Sunshine… you're alive," Dalca observed as he stumbled free of the bone pile.

"You won't be for long," Wagner bit back. With his arm secure, the wizard was drawing more power for another attack.

"Is that any way to greet an old friend?" Dalca replied smartly as he channeled his own power through his arms. His sword was halfway across the room, and he wasn't going to waste time retrieving it. Wagner had discarded his own blade when his arm had been ripped open, and was now dependent on his power to see him through the fight.

"Do you know how long I've dreamt of this?" Wagner replied, his words flying with spittle as he slowly rotated his right hand. Dalca could feel the power he was building up there, and knew another blow might be enough to crush him, hardened hide or no.

"Sixty-seven years, almost to the day," Dalca replied smartly. His hands were glowing with power, but he was waiting for the right moment.

"Sixty-seven years," Wagner confirmed darkly. "Each one spent preparing to finally _end_ you."

"And this is the best you've managed to do?" Dalca asked. "Kind of a slow learner, aren'tcha?"

Wagner growled incoherently before unleashing another torrent of power. " _Chúnlì!_ "

Dalca's shield sprung up just as the power rushed across the enclosed space. Rather than angling it to one side, he formed a wedge shield before him. The kinetic energy was split to either side as Dalca leapt forward, the power he'd gathered in his arms flowing out of his fingertips as he went.

When he dropped the dark shield, his first lava line whipped forward, lashing out at the wizard's magical shield. White light shone brightly in the room as red-hot magma lashed against the half dome. Wagner had been prepared for the counter-attack, and turned to send his own back at Dalca.

But he wasn't expecting the second lava line, which rocketed forward from Dalca's other hand. The molten tip lashed against his good arm, burning through the fabric of his shirt as it scorched his skin.

Wagner hissed in pain, and tried to recover. But the first lava line was already coiling back toward him on its second strike, a low sweeping lash across his left calf. The wizard stumbled, the glowing shield dipping to one side as a downward strike left a scalding scar across his face.

Dalca's arms swung back and forth fluidly, each whip of magma leaving a burning trail in its wake. If the wizard had had time, perhaps he could have come up with a counter. But Dalca's speed was far greater than any mere mortal, and a dozen agonizing strikes left the wizard reeling before he could hope to react.

When he grew tired of the game, Dalca wrapped one igneous whip around the man's ankle. A strong tug put Wagner on his back, and a second had him sliding across the floor toward him.

Wagner finally got his chance to catch his breath, and unleashed a much smaller burst of energy. Dalca saw it coming, and stepped aside to let it pass. The blast shattered the whip that had been pulling the wizard forward, but did nothing against the one that curled in from the side.

The wizard gasped as the line coiled around his neck, and then again as Dalca wrenched him up. Stumbling forward and distracted by the burning line at his throat, Wagner was in no position to block the powerful punch that Dalca landed across his jaw.

Wagner's head snapped to one side as his legs slid out from beneath him, and the man crashed to the ground at Dalca's feet.

Dalca pulled his fist back again, ready to land another blow if necessary. After a long moment, he relaxed, his arm falling to his side. The wizard was out cold, his breathing haggard and bloody from the broken jaw.

A sound to one side drew his attention, and he turned to see the younger warden fall to the floor just inside the hole in the wall, a groan escaping his busted lips. Dalca's eyes trailed over him, noting the gash over his left eye, the scorched sleeve of his right arm, and the thorned manacle around one wrist.

Jean stepped into the room behind him, her head cocked to one side as she looked over Dalca's disheveled appearance.

"What took you so long?"

* * *

When Mara finally returned, it was to find Dalca securing the wizards. She landed on a brick jutting out halfway up the hole, and watched as Dalca pulled Wagner back through.

"What happened?" she asked, glancing into the bone-yard room before letting her gaze settle on the younger warden. He'd already been relocated to the ritual room, and was looking back and forth between them as his head cleared. Jean had rung his bells pretty well in their brief scuffle. What had been a glassy stare was now turning scornful.

The room was illuminated by a floating sphere of light that Jean had conjured up before heading upstairs. The light revealed the strips they'd cut from the young man's shirt, which had then been used as gags for both mages, just in case they tried to cast anything. That was unlikely, considering each was wearing a single thorned manacle. The younger warden was prying at his, while Wagner remained blissfully unconscious.

"White Council Wardens," Dalca replied. "I assumed you took off to see who was coming."

"No, I picked up a scent," Mara corrected him. "I went to see if it led anywhere."

"Leaving us to fend for ourselves?"

Mara rolled her eyes at that. "If you couldn't handle these two, you wouldn't be worthy of my service."

"So did you find something?" Dalca asked as he dropped Wagner to the floor.

"No," she said with a slight shake of her tiny head. "The air around here is too cluttered with scents from the active part of the hospital. I lost the trail when they drove out."

Jean arrived at the door as Mara was finishing. "No sign of anyone coming to investigate, but we might want to take off just in case. There's a car out there with what may be cops inside. Don't think they heard the scuffle, but they might just be waiting for backup."

Dalca nodded. He quickly searched Wagner, relieving him of anything that might be a concealed magical weapon. Once he was done, he did the same with the younger warden, including a wallet that identified him.

"So, Janson," Dalca said as the kid's wallet melted and burned in his glowing hand. "What brought you all here?"

The boy's eyes narrowed, and an incoherent mumbling sounded from beneath his gag.

"Interesting," Dalca said wisely as he looked over the magical items he'd collected. They mostly consisted of rings and other subtle paraphernalia that easily passed as mundane accessories in modern society. "So you all read the same newspaper article we did, and Wagner here just _had_ to come investigate?"

The boy replied with a two-syllable mumble that was universally understandable.

"You're not my type," Dalca replied as he put the items away in a pocket. "Maybe she'd take you up on that, though?" he added, nodding toward Jean.

"Not my type either," the girl replied, before casting a pitying look in the kid's direction. "Sorry, I don't go for weaklings."

Janson blushed even as his scowl grew more furious.

"Grab that sword, would you?" Dalca asked of Jean, gesturing back to the other room. She obliged, and Dalca turned back to the boy. "That was harsh," he sympathized. "I'm sure you're at a very respectable level for a White Council Warden trainee."

Janson squirmed as Dalca reached for him, but all he did was retrieve a dab of the wizard's blood from one of his head wounds. As the wizard watched, Dalca stuck the digit in his mouth and tasted the boy's power. "Yeah, you'll be fine. Just stick with it."

Before the kid could mumble anything more at him, Dalca waved a hand in his face. _"_ _Niālu_."

The young wizard's eyes crossed as the spell knocked him out. While he might have had some training against mental manipulation, the boy's defenses were likely impaired by the presence of the thorned manacle. He didn't stand a chance.

With the two wizards tied up and unconscious, Dalca turned to Mara. The tiny fairy was standing on Wagner's chest, looking down at him as she wondered the same thing Dalca was.

How had Sunshine survived?

"Make yourself useful," he said to the water vâlvă. "Heal up his injuries.

Mara spun at that, her dark eyes widening as her jaw dropped open in shock. "What?"

"I want you to heal him."

The fairy looked back and forth between him and the wizard. "But…"

"You know why," Dalca said tiredly. His eyes drifted up as Jean started stepping back through the hole in the wall, the discarded warden's blade in her hands. "Just take care of it, okay?"

"Nice blade," Jean said as she looked over the sword. Dalca rose and took it from her, inspecting the weapon closely.

"Meh," Dalca said, immediately disinterested in it. "It's not a true warden's blade. There are some basic enchantments, but it's nothing more than a cheap imitation." He turned to show the blade to Mara, who still hadn't budged from her place on the warden's chest. She was still frozen in shock from Dalca's request.

"Didn't you tell me they didn't make them anymore?" Jean asked as Dalca made a hurry-up motion to the water vâlvă. Mara finally obeyed, and started walking across the wizard to reach his arm.

Her displeasure with the task was evident by how thoroughly she stomped.

"Yeah," Dalca confirmed with a sigh. He began to channel heat into his hands, which caused his skin to shine once more from within. The metal began to glow beneath his grip as he super-heated the blade. "But Wagner is old enough that I thought he might have received another."

"Another?" Jean asked, her eyes narrowing with curiosity.

"I took his real warden's blade the last time we met," Dalca said.

Jean glanced down at the unconscious wizard. "Wait, I thought you said you only took the swords of those you killed?"

"I did. And I do, when they're worth keeping."

Jean crossed her arms. "Am I missing something?"

"Do you remember when we met?" Dalca asked sardonically. "When I told you I'd been wrong once or twice before?" The girl nodded, remembering the exchange more fondly than she'd lived it. "Well, it looks like there might have been a third time."

"So you left him for dead, but clearly he wasn't," she surmised. "What's he doing here?"

"The same thing we are," Dalca said softly, watching the metal in his hands as it begin to warp. "Chasing shadows of the past."

Jean rolled her eyes. "Are you intentionally being cryptic right now?"

"No."

"Because you said it always pisses you off when wizards are cryptic."

"Why do I do this to myself?" Dalca muttered as he flexed his muscles. There was a slight shriek as the heated metal bent, before finally snapping in two. "Somehow I always forget that apprentices get annoying after a while."

"So what are they doing here?" Jean insisted.

"You remember how I told you we drained a wizard for the summoning spells?" Dalca had filled her in on some of the details on the flight in. Not all of them, but enough to understand the basics of the ritual.

When the girl nodded, Dalca gestured to the older warden. "That would be him."

"Oh," she said. "So he survived back then. And he probably saw the same article you did…"

"…and came to investigate," Dalca finished. "This was his territory back before the war broke out. He sided with the Council and the Allies rather than his home country. When Schröter said he needed a wizard's blood for the ritual, I went out and found the closest that was the most suitable."

"Most suitable?" Jean asked quizzically as Dalca resumed searching the wizards for any last things that might be of use in freeing themselves. He was careful to not disrupt Mara, who was staring daggers at him while she worked.

"The Nazis were particular about bloodlines," Dalca said while avoiding her gaze. "Wagner happened to be blond haired and blue-eyed enough to fit their idealistic requirements."

"Alright," Jean said with a nod. "He was from this area, survived the war, and stuck around. He saw the article just like you did, and came to investigate."

"Sounds logical."

"So did we learn anything from all of this?" Jean asked.

"We confirmed it's the same ritual as before," Dalca said. "Which means we know when they'll be trying it, what they need, and a general idea of where they'll be."

"Really?" Jean asked. "You got all of that from an empty room and an old cauldron?"

"Pretty much." Dalca's eyes narrowed. "Which gives me an idea on where to go next." Before she could ask more of her questions, Dalca turned to Mara. "You about done?"

"Bite me," the tiny fairy replied.

Dalca sighed. Turning back to Jean, he gestured to the two wizards. "Hit them with another knock-out spell, and then retrieve the manacles. We've got to get going."

"Where?" Jean asked as she obeyed his commands.

Dalca looked off into the distance. "The police station."

Jean looked up in surprise, but thankfully concentrated on her tasks. Which gave Dalca time to start piecing the puzzle together, to figure out just what he was dealing with.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 04

A short time later found them parked outside the local police station, waiting for something to happen.

They'd left the two wizards trussed in the basement. Their magical items had been discarded in a trashcan outside the hospital, which might slow them down for a minute or two once they woke up.

Jean had wanted to keep some of it, but Dalca had warned her that they might be able to use the items to track them. He was hoping to stay ahead of the wizards, but as more time passed, he began to think he should have left the thorned manacles on them.

"So you said the ritual site was similar to what it was back in the day?" Jean asked.

"Yes," Dalca confirmed. "Although there weren't as many sacrifices piled up back then."

"You mean the bone-yard?"

Dalca nodded. "We went through about a dozen sacrifices in the original attempt," he confessed. The girl blinked, but didn't say anything about his willing participation in twelve child murders. "But the pile back at the sanitarium was much more than that. I'd hazard to guess that someone's been using that sight for years."

"And it has to be done on a full moon?" Jean repeated.

"A Hot Moon," Dalca reiterated. "Only the June full moon."

"Which is tomorrow night." Jean looked at the police station. Dalca hadn't told her why they were there, and instead was letting her work it out for herself.

When she finally got it, she snapped her fingers. "We're here to see if they steal the supplies back!"

"Exactly," Dalca said with a nod. "With the full moon so close, I doubt whoever's doing this will have time to gather up everything from scratch. The easiest thing to do is steal it back from the cops and find another ritual site."

"And you said they're Wolfshits?" Jean asked with a smile.

"Wolfsherzen," Dalca corrected her. "At least, that's what they were back in the day." He glanced at Mara, who was studying a folded up map on the dash. "You're sure that's the scent you tracked?"

The water vâlvă bristled, as if offended he'd question her abilities. "I'm still not speaking to you."

"Honestly, Mara," Jean said as she looked to the tiny figure on the dash. "Was it that bad?"

"Bad?! _Bad?!_ " Mara replied indignantly. The map of Germany momentarily forgotten, her wings snapped out as she leapt to the air. She glided over to the shoulder of Jean's seat, so that she could glare balefully at the young wizard. "What he asked was _unthinkable!_ "

Dalca just shook his head, wishing the girl would let it go. But Jean was persistent. "I've seen you heal us several dozen times. What's the big deal?"

"Him!" Mara retorted, pointing a clawed finger in Dalca's direction. "Him, because he's my lord, and I'm _supposed_ to!" One of Jean's eyebrows rose at that; Dalca realized it must have been the first time she'd heard Mara call him that without joking. "And you, because you're his latest _pet!_ "

Mara's body twisted as she pointed back in the direction of the old sanitarium. "But he had me heal a warden! A _WARDEN_ , of all things!"

Jean glanced at Dalca. "I get that they're bad news for me, but why's it such a big deal for her?"

Mara threw her hands up. "When it gets out that Dubhlainn spared a warden—"

"Enough," Dalca said tiredly.

"Dovelin?" Jean asked, sounding out the name.

"A story for another time," Dalca said softly. "Let her be. She knows why I had her do it."

Jean settled back, clearly curious about what Mara had said. But as the little fairy had already shot back to the dash, grumbling something about reputations, the girl let it be. "Okay. So Mara took off because she picked up the scent of one of these Wolfshits."

"They were pretty badass back in the day," Dalca admitted. "Lycanthropes are nothing to laugh at. And the ones in Herzog's pack, the ones that served Schröter, were formidable."

"So it's not a coincidence that she smelled a lycanthrope back at the ritual site."

"I'd say not," Dalca said. "Whoever's doing this, it's all tied back to the old days."

"Could it be Schröter?" Jean asked as Dalca saw shadows shift near the precinct's back doors.

"No," Dalca replied. "He's gotta be dead by now."

"Dead like Wagner?" Jean mused. "Even surviving your… feeding, Wagner would be, what? Ninety-something? Yet he didn't look a day over sixty-five."

Dalca shook his head at that. "That's different. Wagner had power. _Has_ power," he amended, correcting himself. "Those with real talent will gradually stop aging at the same rate. Schröter was just a wanna-be sorcerer with no magical ability. He'd be well over a hundred by now. We've got to find whoever got ahold of his little black book."

"His what?" Jean asked, arching an eyebrow. "Nazis had booty call books?"

"No," Dalca sighed irritably. "Schröter kept a journal of his efforts. It had all of the ritual components. And as far as I know, he was the only one that knew all of it."

More shadows shifted around the back doors, and Dalca saw one open. Several figures slipped inside, and Dalca sat up.

"So who would have it?" Jean asked.

"I've got someone else trying to track that." He could see that she wanted to ask more, so he side-tracked her. "Mara's working on figuring out where they'll be next. If she fails, I'll have you start checking the net later."

"Ugh," the girl replied as she took her turn at eye rolling. "I hate wearing those manacles."

"All your generation does is whine," Dalca muttered. "Besides, that's only necessary if Mara fails," he continued.

"If I were speaking to either of you, it'd be to tell you to _fuck off!_ " the high-pitched voice screamed in reply.

"Looks like we've got activity," Dalca said as a large truck pulled up to the fence surrounding the police storage building. Someone on the inside opened the gate for them, and the truck started maneuvering to back up to the loading bay doors.

Dalca supposed it could have been a legitimate late night delivery to the station. But the truck had left its lights off, and the figures making their way into the building were anything but casual as they ran about.

"Stay here," Dalca said as he looked at his sword in the back seat. Taking it with him might be useful, but it'd also be more difficult with what he had in mind. Deciding to stick with only his Luger and stiletto, he turned back to Jean. "I'm going to take a look. You've got the tracking spell ready?"

"Yup," Jean confirmed, holding up her slingshot. "You want me to go hit the truck now?"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "Wait until they're leaving. If they _are_ lycanthropes, they might hear it, or smell you. No point in drawing attention before we're ready."

Jean nodded, and sat back to watch the building as Dalca made his way across the street.

One thing he'd learned in his many years on the earth was how to move stealthily. You didn't survive centuries if you didn't know how to creep through shadows.

Veils certainly helped with that, but there were plenty of things that could see through them. Dalca was sure that Wagner had done just that back in the sanatorium's basement. While he likely hadn't used his wizard's Sight, he'd done something that had cut through Jean's spell.

Wagner hadn't known any spells like that back when Dalca had known him. He was sure of that. When he fed on a practitioner enough, he not only gained their power, but their knowledge of that power as well. While he didn't see anything of their lives, he knew every spell they'd cast. That knowledge remained with him, even when the power he'd absorbed had long since faded.

No, veils were useful, but not perfect. So as Dalca passed the fence surrounding the police property, he didn't bother with anything to conceal himself. Even if he had, lycanthropes weren't dependent on sight alone to track their prey.

Besides, Dalca wasn't all that good with them anyways. And since neither was Jean, that meant he didn't couldn't draw on his reserve of her power to help him. Veiling a sword with a built-in enchantment was one thing; covering himself for an extended time was something else entirely.

When he was sure no-one was looking, Dalca got a running start before jumping at a lamp post. As his boot struck the rounded lip of the base, he pushed off. The effort pushed him back across the sidewalk, the strength in his leg enough to propel him to the top of the fence. His hands pressed down on the barb wire as he hurtled over. The flesh of his palms thickened into a tougher hide, protecting him where one barb pressed at his skin.

And then he was over and on the ground, cutting across the small open space to the side of the building. It was more like a warehouse than anything; a place the police could store large quantities of items they'd confiscated during busts. It stood two stories tall, with a brick siding that was unbroken by inconvenient windows, save for a thin row of them lining the very top of the wall.

Those same windows were Dalca's destination. Easily twenty feet from the ground, they'd be beyond anyone else's reach. But with another running start and a leap from atop a concrete barrier post, Dalca managed to grasp the bare lower edge of the windows.

As he clung to the outside of the building, the fingers on Dalca's left hand began to grow and shift. The flesh darkened as a reptilian hide appeared. His fingernails transformed as well, growing until they became razor sharp claws that bit into the wood paneling beneath the window.

With one clawed hand and his booted feet maintaining his position against the wall, Dalca was free to lift his other hand to the window. He was tempted to cut through the glass with his claws, but the sound of it breaking might draw unwanted attention.

Instead, he resorted to a gentle kinetic spell that slowly rotated the locking mechanism on the window.

It was normally a costly spell for Dalca, as kinetics weren't something his kind were particularly good at. But Jean had shown some promise in that area, and as he muttered the incantation, it was her power that he used to fuel it.

The lock popped open with a satisfying click, and Dalca eased the window open before carefully making his way inside.

The warehouse consisted of a single open space that spanned both floors. Thankfully for Dalca, the police had set up tall shelving units across the entirety of it. As he slid inside, it was to land atop one of the units along the outer wall.

He could hear the intruders working in the dark space. The rustle of clothing and soft grunting of those carrying heavy objects sounded across the large room. Dalca crept along the top of the shelving, using the crates and boxes there as shelter to hide behind should anyone look up.

As he drew closer, a familiar scent wafted his way. He froze as soon as he picked it up, and hastily cast another spell.

" _Šaqummatu-irīšu,_ " he muttered softly. He waved his hand as he said it, and could feel the air around him change as the sphere formed.

Unlike a regular veil, the spell did nothing to conceal Dalca visually. Instead, the spell formed a barrier that sound and smell wouldn't pass through. His own senses were dampened somewhat, but not terribly so. It wasn't a cheap spell, and Dalca knew keeping it up for any length of time would prove costly.

While such precautions might normally be overkill, they were mandatory when in the presence of lycanthropes.

"The incense crates are over here," a muffled voice called from a row over. Dalca leaned around a crate to peer down, hoping to catch sight of those working below.

There were no lights on in the warehouse, but those shuffling about were doing well all the same. Several shadowed figures retrieved the indicated boxes, and carried them down the aisle toward the truck. Dalca caught sight of one form that was directing the others, their dark silhouette seeming smaller and slighter than the rest. After a moment the figure moved on, and the others trailed after.

Dalca knew he had to get closer, but didn't want to risk climbing down. He knew he'd make too much racket for his spell to conceal, and instead looked up, to where the steel girders criss-crossed the building.

He quickly made his way over to one, which was just within his reach from atop the shelves. Taking hold of the exposed I-beam edges, Dalca began a slow shimmy across the space to the next row of shelves. He moved soundlessly, aided by the dampening spell that surrounded him.

When he dropped to the top of the next row, a slight rattle escaped down the support beams. Since the sound traveled down the metal and out of the bubble, the spell couldn't silence all of it.

Figures below froze as the shelves shifted beneath Dalca's weight, but the noise was diffuse enough to make it difficult to pinpoint. After a tense moment, they all resumed their activities, and Dalca shifted to look over the edge.

The problem with dealing with lycanthropes is that they're too resourceful with their enhanced senses. Most humans would be bumping into each other and cursing while working in nearly-pitch-black conditions. But the well organized berserkers below moved with ease among the shadows.

Unfortunately, that made it difficult for Dalca to make out their features.

Still, he wasn't completely lost in the darkness. Even with his normally enhanced hearing somewhat hampered by the dampening spell, he could fall back on other senses not available to humans.

He blinked slowly, letting his eyes adjust. But rather than growing used to the dark, his eyes literally _shifted_ ; his pupils elongated into uneven slits, taking on a more reptilian form. As they did, the world below him was exposed as his thermal vision kicked in.

The shadowed figures brightened into furious shades of orange and red. Lycanthropes were hot-blooded, both literally and figuratively. That close to the full moon, Dalca was surprised they were acting as calm and disciplined as they were. But there was nothing they could do about the heat of their bodies, which is how Dalca now tracked them.

Of the nearly two dozen people working below him, Dalca figured all but one were lycanthropes. The lone hold-out was luke-warm to his thermal vision, identifying them as human. Very few things held the same body temperature as mortals, and the one below was in the right spectrum.

Surprisingly, that same human was also the person in charge.

"Where are the oils?" the same voice asked, originating from the slight human form. That time it was easily identifiable as female.

A sniffing sound preceded the reply. "Over there," a male replied, his thermally crimson arm gesturing to another aisle.

"Well go _get_ them," the woman snapped.

Dalca blinked at the tone, which was all but suicidal coming from a human. Lycanthropes ran in packs, just like wolves and werewolves. They answered to a structured hierarchy; one that would not allow for a mortal woman to be in charge. Ordering the berserkers about like that might get her killed on a normal night, much less the night before a full moon.

And yet, to Dalca's surprise, the man and several other lycanthropes all moved to obey.

Dalca was sorely tempted to lower the odor-shield, if only to try and catch the woman's scent. Identifying mortals by thermal signatures alone was all but impossible, and he'd prefer getting something more concrete. But he knew that if he did, the lycanthropes might pick up his own scent.

Instead, he waited silently while they retrieved all of their precious ingredients, knowing Jean would take care of tracking them once they went to leave.

He watched them work, until his entire plan went up in smoke.

The first sign that anything was wrong was seen below. The lycanthropes all seemed to grow tense at the same moment, their heads swiveling to the back door. Dalca's gaze followed theirs.

In his small bubble of air, Dalca couldn't smell the fire, nor had he heard the explosion as the fireball erupted against the outer wall. But he could see the light of the flames, burning brilliantly in his thermal vision, as they licked at the door-frame.

"Stop!" someone shouted as a silhouette appeared next to the flames. Dalca blinked away his thermal vision, the features of the person lost in the yellowed hues. As he trained his human-like eyes on the new arrival, he cursed under his breath.

It seemed young Warden Janson had come to the same conclusion that Dalca had, and had rushed to stop the perpetrators before they could recover their supplies.

"I said stop!" Janson repeated, his shout echoing in the warehouse as he thrust his hand at someone. Dalca couldn't see who he was targeting, but he heard it when they slammed into one of the other shelving units.

Nearly a dozen menacing growls erupted from below, as the lycanthropes caught the scent of the intruder. The wizard turned at the sound, and Dalca imagined he could see the look of consternation bloom across his face as a pack of nearly feral berserkers all charged him, ready to tear him limb from limb.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 05

Dalca was sorely tempted to let the wizard die for his mistake.

Unfortunately, the decision wasn't left up to him.

"The fuck are you doing?!" an all-too-familiar voice shouted from behind Janson. As Dalca watched, Jean appeared at his side, her own slim cavalry sword already drawn.

The blade glinted in the light from the wizard's fire, the hue of the steel a rosy pink. As Janson fired another blast at the lycanthrope charging from his left, Jean slashed the sword out to her right to ward off a second.

The man checked his advance in time to avoid the cutting strike, but he could do nothing about the fireball she unleashed. A small sphere shot from her hand like a cannonball, striking the man in the chest and sending him hurtling back. Flames erupted over his clothing as he fell, and his assault was quickly forgotten as he concentrated on smothering the fires that threatened to burn him alive.

Despite the two's efficiency at maiming the first couple lycanthropes, the rest weren't deterred. A dozen continued their charge, while the rest were reined in by the woman below.

"No, grab the rest!" she shouted at one lycanthrope as they started past her. She grabbed their arm as they did, another act that should have left her dead or dying. But the men and women heeded her words, and instead scrambled around, looking for the rest of the supplies.

It was clear that this mortal woman, whoever she may be, was in command of the pack. That also meant she was the most likely to have answers to his questions.

Dalca moved quickly across the top of the shelves. When he was in position, he stepped off the edge, and fell the nearly two dozen feet to the warehouse floor. He kept the veil in place for as long as possible, dropping it only once he'd landed directly behind the woman.

Power surged through his arm as he transformed his right hand. Soft flesh gave way to hardened hide as his nails grew long and sharp. His clawed fingers were a red so dark that they bordered on black as they wrapped around the woman's neck.

"Call them off," Dalca whispered, feeling her tense beneath his grip.

Up close, Dalca could see the woman was tall and well built. His initial observation that she was small was simply due to his comparison to the naturally large lycanthropes that'd surrounded her. She wasn't big, but neither was she a petite flower.

The woman's blond head began to twist around to look at him, but his fingers tightened on her throat. "No. Call them off."

Dalca could hear a low growl from several of the lycanthropes as they noted his presence. Dalca blinked his eyes back into their reptilian form and tracked the movement of their thermal signatures. He watched as they encircled the two of them, even as the woman laid a gentle hand on the claws on her neck. "Who are you?" she asked in German.

Her voice was surprisingly calm. "Questions later," he replied in the same language. He could hear the battle at the front of the room, and knew Jean and Jonson were going to be overrun in a matter of moments. "Call off your dogs."

"I think not," the woman replied.

Dalca's head turned from tracking the lycanthropes, and blinked in surprise as the mortal woman slowly peeled his hand from her throat. "What—" he began.

His arm tensed as he tried to pull away, but the woman's strength was shocking. Dalca's other arm rose to grab at her, but her elbow shot back and struck his chest.

Dalca gasped as he was rocked backwards. The woman let him stumble away, but didn't release his arm. Instead, she spun in place and used it to balance herself as she snapped a side-kick at his gut. The blow landed like a spear shot from a ballista, and Dalca was thrown back as he fought to catch his breath.

He slammed into a steel support beam before crashing to the concrete floor. He rolled as did, and started to right himself as he spun back toward the woman, one hand clutching at his side.

"What the hell?" he gasped as the woman stared back at him, her face a blur of heat in his thermal vision. She'd gone from cold to hot in an instant, in a way humans rarely did unless you set them on fire first.

"Kill him," she ordered, before turning and striding toward the back of the warehouse.

Dalca shifted his attention to the three lycanthropes that had surrounded him, their bodies burning bright. He blinked his thermal vision away, preferring to fight with his regular sight even in the shadowed aisle.

When the first one charged, it was to swipe a hand at him. The attack momentarily confused Dalca, as he didn't see where the man had a weapon. And since lycanthropes didn't transform like weres or shape-shifters, their hands alone weren't much of a threat.

Apparently someone hadn't bothered telling this pack about the rules, because as the clinched hand swept at Dalca, he saw the barest glint of dark gold before razor-sharp claws tore his forearm open.

"Fuck!" he breathed, shocked at the pain that accompanied the attack. He was so surprised by the burning sensation that it took another second or two for it to register that the lycanthrope had done the impossible: he'd torn Dalca's arm open as if it were nothing more than mortal flesh.

Dalca barely avoided a second swipe as he retreated, only to realize he was backing toward the other two lycanthropes. As the first berserker charged, Dalca snapped a kick out. His booted foot crashed into the man's chest, and he heard the lycanthrope's ribcage shatter beneath the blow.

The first man collapsed as his broken bones punctured all of his internal organs, which freed Dalca to turn toward the other two. His uninjured arm rose in time to unleash a bolt of black lighting at one. " _Şalmu birqu!_ "

The red-shrouded streak of black light struck the man in the chest, where it quickly wreaked unholy havoc. The crimson light burned hot enough to scorch, but the true damage was done by the dark energy inside. Wherever it touched the man's body, his flesh was reduced to base organic materials. A scream began to erupt from his lips before ending abruptly, as his lungs were disintegrated, along with the rest of his chest.

Dalca didn't have time to shift his aim to the third attacker, and instead retreated backward as she swept in close. His left arm was all but useless for the moment, and he barely avoided another swipe of metallic claws.

The woman moved with the strength and speed of a lycanthrope, which is to say that she was superior to most mortals. Dalca found that he could stay ahead of her, and eventually took an opportunity to grab one of the woman's arms as it swung past.

She tried pulling free, but wasn't strong enough to break his grip. She began to twist around, bringing her other clawed hand to bear, but Dalca wasn't going to give her the time. He managed to lift his left hand enough to unleash another bolt of dark lightning, which tore through the woman's shoulder on the way to her head.

A bloody mist filled the aisle as her arm was seperated from her body just moments before her skull exploded.

Before she'd finished collapsing, Dalca had already turned toward the others. He started heading for the rear, taking only a moment to stomp on the head of the first lycanthrope as he hissed out, " _Dāmu salāqu_."

The skin along his arm began to glow from within as the spell took hold. A sizzling sound could be heard behind him as he charged down the aisle, the blood he'd left on the floor burning away even as a scalding sensation blossomed across his forearm and chest. Looking down, he was surprised to see parallel streaks of torn flesh, now glowing from within.

That last lycanthrope had actually cut his chest open with her flailing attack. The wound was shallow, leaving only the barest of scrapes. Still, those types of injuries added up quickly. His spell cauterized those wounds as well as his arm, and by the time he reached the back, he was no longer bleeding like a stuck pig. It wasn't pretty, but it was enough for the moment.

As he approached the conflict, Dalca drew his Luger with his left hand, its functionality improved as the wounds puckered and blackened. The dead lycanthrope's arm was still grasped in his right as he skidded to a halt at the end of the aisle.

To his left, he could see half a dozen remaining lycanthropes that had managed to corner Jean and the young warden. The rest had retreated outside toward the large moving truck, which was just beginning to shift into gear.

Dalca's left arm rose, quickly firing six shots. He barely took any effort at aiming, instead counting on his acute hearing to allow him to target the lycanthropes. The enchantments on the barrel kept the shots all but silent, without compromising the bullet's speed. Each round was fired one after the other, and each hit their mark. The last berserker hadn't even turned at the muted sound of the first shot before the sixth bullet exploded into his skull.

"The tracker!" Dalca shouted as he ran out the back door. His gun arm rose to fire at the truck, but froze as he stared at the figure standing in the parking lot. His breath caught in his chest as his eyes widened, transfixed on the bronze-clad figure.

It stood no taller than a boy. Its skin was smooth and unblemished, and impossibly metallic. The thing was naked beneath the street lamp, its head cocked to one side as it looked back at him with three obsidian eyes.

Dalca heard Jean arrive, but couldn't look away. He heard her fiddle with the slingshot and tracker. It was nothing more than an off-the-shelf sling and a dodecahedral die. Rather than numbers or dots beings carved into the die, they'd imbued it with empowered runes.

Each of the thirteen sides had been prepared with a unique thaumaturgic spell. As it closed on the target, the spells would rotate the die so that the side corresponding with the correct material struck the target. If fired at glass, wood, or plastic, the die would make sure that side was drawn forward. When it hit, magic would bind the die to the material as if it were made of the same stuff.

As Jean unleashed the die, Dalca knew it'd likely end up rotating to a metallic side, to cling to the metal of the truck. If her aim was low, it might cling to the composite plastic of the bumper, or even the rubber of one of the tires.

Regardless, the tracker never reached its intended target. About halfway to the truck, the die spun off to one side. The truck bounced over the curb and escaped as the tracker twisted in mid-air to head instead toward the bronze figure.

"What the…" Jean began, before trailing off as she spotted the boy.

One bronze hand was raised up, and the die hovered an inch or so above its palm. The head had turned to look at the magical contraption, letting it spin as it observed each side. After a moment, it lost interest, and plucked the die from the air with its metallic fingers.

Rubbing them together, the bronze colored thing ground the magical construct to dust, before shifting its gaze back toward Dalca and Jean.

"What the hell is that?" Jean gasped.

Before Dalca could reply, the air pulsed with power. The lights on the street all sparked and exploded, shining brilliantly for a moment before casting everything into darkness. Dalca blinked as Jean flinched back.

By the time they could see again, the bronze figure was gone.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

After a moment, Dalca turned back to the warehouse, hoping he might have missed for once in his life. Jean started after him, her eyes still wide. "What was that?"

"Are any of them still alive?" Dalca replied. He strode into the building, which was mostly still intact after the brief battle. There was an abundance of damage done to the items being stored, and several crates appeared to be on fire.

"Uh, I injured one, but I don't think he's here," the girl replied.

Dalca searched through the wreckage, but the only heartbeat other than theirs was that of Jonson the wizard, who was resting against the wall. It appeared that his arm was broken, and he'd taken several lacerations from the lycanthropes claws.

"Here," Dalca said, holding the severed arm out to Jean. "Hold on to this."

"Ew," she replied as she took it. Her eyes were narrowed doubtfully as she looked at the limb. "Don't tell me you're keeping this as a souvenir."

"Research," Dalca informed her as he fished around in his pocket while walking over to Jonson. The young warden looked up, his eyes widening as Dalca grabbed him by the collar and hauled him up. Dalca could feel the wizard beginning to summon up some power, but he ended that right quick by slapping the thorned manacle onto his wrist.

"Ow!" the boy hissed as the steel thorns bit into his skin. The power he'd summoned disappeared as the manacle siphoned off both his magic and his attention.

"Do you know anything about this?" Dalca asked, shaking the boy until he looked up. He had to use both hands, as his left arm was still throbbing from the injury he'd taken.

"About what?" Jonson replied with a scowl.

"About that," Dalca repeated, nodding at the arm Jean held. The girl lifted it as she muttered the command to illuminate her ring. The soft glow from the marble glinted off the golden metal extending from the lycanthrope's fingers.

What'd he'd assumed were enchanted gloves with claws were revealed to be actual metal fingernails that had grown from the lycanthrope's fingertips. There were no discernible markings on them, which one would normally find on magical enchantments.

The young wizard looked at the hand, his face blanching somewhat at the fact that the rest of the owner seemed to be missing. "I have no idea what that is."

Dalca slammed him into the wall. "Lycanthropes don't transform. They don't grow claws, especially not metal ones. You're saying you haven't seen this before?"

"No," the boy insisted, his nervous eyes flickering over Dalca's face. "I mean, yes. I haven't seen that before."

Dalca tried listening for Jonson's heartbeat, to determine if he were lying. But with his pulse already quickened with nerves, it was impossible to tell.

Frustrated, he released the boy, who slid along the wall to the floor. Dalca turned away from him and started checking over the deceased pack members for clues.

"Don't," he said over his shoulder without turning around. Instead he kept his eyes on one of the lycanthropes, inspecting their fingers along with a quick perusal of the rest of their body. There were no other oddities, at least until Dalca spotted a glint in a gaping mouth. When he pulled the corpse's jaw open, it was to find more golden metal forming sharp fangs.

A rustling accompanied a pained yelp. "He said don't do that," Jean snapped. Dalca glanced over and saw that Jonson was glaring up at her from the floor.

It looked as if she'd kicked him, to warn him off fiddling with the manacle. He hadn't bothered locking it, as he didn't intend on leaving it on the boy. But he didn't want him summoning up too much courage while Dalca made his hasty inspection of the intruders.

He began to turn back to the dead berserker, but a sound caught his attention. "We have to go."

Turning, he thrust a hand at the boy. " _Niālu_ ," he said, hitting him with the knock-out spell again. Jonson's mumbled protest died as he slipped into a blissful sleep. Dalca quickly slung him over a shoulder and started heading for the door.

"Do you want…" Jean began.

"Just the hand," Dalca replied.

If she was unnerved by the request, she didn't say anything. Dalca heard her sword slide free of its sheath, and a muttered spell super-heated the blade. It helped make quick work of it, and after only a moment, she trotted to catch up with Dalca, the golden-nailed hand pocketed in her hooded sweatshirt.

The three made a hasty retreat, the boy flopping on Dalca's shoulder and he and Jean sprinted across the street to their car as the police finally arrived. Whatever alarms the lycanthropes had disabled had delayed the response, but the battle had made enough racket to draw someone's attention.

One of the responders spotted them as they climbed into the car, and angry shouts chased them as they pulled out onto the street.

* * *

Dalca drove a good distance before pulling over to dump Jonson on a park bench. As he climbed back in the car, Jean shot him a concerned look. "Is he going to be okay?"

"He'll be fine," Dalca assured her. "His injuries aren't life threatening."

The girl frowned. "Why didn't you heal him?"

Dalca blinked at that. "You know I'm not great at healing magic."

For that matter, neither was Jean. If she had been, he might have let her work on the boy. But since her talent didn't lean that way, he couldn't use the power he'd absorbed from her in that fashion either. She was more inclined toward destructive magics, which came in handy in a fight. But not so much in the finer arts.

"If Mara had been here, would you have made her do it?" Jean pressed.

"What? No," Dalca said, growing irritated.

"But you had her heal the other wizard," she insisted.

"Only because I had to," Dalca replied.

That seemed to confuse her even more, but thankfully she let the matter drop. Instead, she changed the topic. Somewhat.

"Why didn't you just leave him at the warehouse?" she asked. "They would have gotten him medical attention."

"He's young and idealistic," Dalca replied. "If the police found him, he might try and slow us down by telling them what we look like. Finding a new ride is enough hassle without worrying about B.O.L.O.'s."

Jean lowered the passenger visor to look in the vanity mirror. "Do you think we need to change our appearances?"

"Probably," Dalca admitted. "But we can't do that until Mara gets back."

"And you think she went after the truck?" Jean asked.

"I hope so," Dalca replied. "That's our only real hope of finding out where they're setting up for the ritual."

When they'd returned to the vehicle, they'd realized that Mara was nowhere to be found. As she hadn't joined in the fight, nor shown up afterward to ask about the bronze boy, Dalca assumed she'd taken off after the truck once the tracking attempt failed.

But just because she wasn't there didn't mean there weren't questions about what they'd seen.

"What was that thing?" Jean asked.

Dalca didn't need her to clarify. "I'm not entirely sure," he lied. "Whatever it was, it's weird."

" _I_ _'_ _ll_ say," Jean muttered. "It felt… cold."

"It was siphoning energy from the environment around it," Dalca confirmed. "Metal skin doesn't just move like that. I think it was drawing both magic and heat from the air; using both to warm its flesh into something malleable."

"Is it a golem of some sort then?" Jean asked with a quizzical frown. "Someone animated it?"

Rather than lying again, Dalca just shrugged.

Jean eyed him, clearly not believing that he was ignorant of the thing's nature. He'd seen a lot, and she'd figured that out over the last year and a half. But she'd also learned that he only talked when it suited him. Which, for the moment, it clearly didn't.

"Where are we going?" she asked instead.

"We'll head at least a town or two over before finding a new vehicle. Just in case the cops saw the plates."

"Maybe we'll find a jalopy," Jean muttered, running her fingers over the thorned manacle she wore.

"Oh no, we'll need another fancy ride," Dalca informed her. When she looked up questioningly, he shrugged. "With Mara missing in action, you've got to take over the job of finding the next ritual site, just in case. You'll need your fancy 'WiFi' and the 'internets'."

Jean groaned at his feigned ignorance of 'newfangled technology', something that only cropped up when partnered with words like 'research' and 'work'. Otherwise he was as proficient with the latest tech as one could imagine.

"Ugh, kill me now," the girl muttered.

Dalca turned to her, the grin quickly spreading on his face to reveal sharp teeth.

"That can be arranged."

* * *

When humanity imagines the supernatural, it's often quite racist. Or speciesist, to be more accurate. Preconceptions about the intelligence of anything other than pure human are often skewed, resulting in the mortal world's misguided belief that evil things only lurk in dark woods or alleys. They tend to believe that monsters are little more than beasts, incapable of resisting their unquenchable blood-lust.

Media has much to do with that. Humans have been exposed to too many vampire, werewolf, and zombie films to take the supernatural seriously. Why fear creatures that cower in abandoned New Orleans mansions eating rats? Who could take seriously a ferocious beast that can be vanquished with an inherited silver butter-knife?

Those that suspect magic might be real keep a careful eye on the shadows, never thinking to look about them in the light of day.

The truth is that supernatural beings had infiltrated every level of society. Those less ignorant might be aware of some groups like the Red and White Courts of vampires, which had very quietly taken over certain disreputable industries. Fewer would know that other creatures from a multitude of pantheons controlled businesses and governments worldwide, to say nothing of several royal families with suspect genealogy.

No, it would never occur to most people that supernatural beings exist along beside them. Dalca's personal favorite organization was one that was spread so thoroughly around the world that they were practically a franchise.

Subtle hint: doormen don't wear gloves because they're in fashion.

A brief stop at a high-end hotel in a town along their route provided them with everything they needed. Their suspect rental vehicle was replaced with another make and model still furnished with the finest accessories. Fresh clothing and food were provided, as well as a room to freshen up in and spend the night while waiting for their requests to be fulfilled.

Come the next morning, Dalca and Jean were both rested and ready to resume their search. Dalca had spent some time and effort on healing the wounds he'd received and studying the golden-nailed hand. The former had met with very modest progress, while the latter was sadly lacking in the same. Other than determining that the metal was in fact bronze, and not gold, and deducing it had likely originated with the bronze boy, Dalca knew little about it.

It seemed that whatever had empowered the metal to cut into Dalca's skin was gone, most likely as the lycanthrope herself had died. After several hours, the metal had begun to soften and lose its shape. Now Dalca was unable to harm himself with it even if he tried.

Jean was meeting with more success, having accurately mapped out the ley line. As Mara had suggested, both the hospital in Schwalmtal and the one in Beelitz lay upon a dark ley line that extended across the continent. Suspecting that the sorceress — Dalca hadn't sensed any magical ability in the blond-haired woman's touch, but there was no doubting she had power of some sort — and her lycanthropes needed a specific type of place to complete the ritual, Jean was concentrating on finding locations throughout Germany with the right sort of history along the route.

While she was working, Dalca's phone rang. The girl looked up as he stepped away to answer it.

"What'd you find?" he asked without preamble.

"A name and a current address," the man on the other end replied. There was a slightly arrogant tone to the his voice, which immediately irritated Dalca.

"We both know you weren't the one to find either," Dalca replied curtly.

The other just grunted, as if that didn't matter in the slightest. "Do you want them or not?"

"Yes," Dalca said. He jotted down the information on hotel stationary, and repeated it back just to confirm.

"Now, about payment," the other man said.

"Fuck off," Dalca said, mimicking the man's arrogant tone. "I don't bargain with lap dogs."

Before the man could reply, Dalca hung up. When he turned around, it was to find Jean blinking curiously. He held up the pad.

"I've got a lead," he said. "Get ready to hit the road."

"But I've got a couple of prospects…" the girl said, trailing off as she indicated the map. She was wearing both thorned manacles, in order to make sure she didn't short out the tablet she was using for research.

"Those can wait," Dalca said, waving her off. "They're in Germany, right?"

"Yeah," she confirmed. "You said they'd stay close to the original site."

"Then we'll figure out which is most likely, and get to it by nightfall. We'll split up to cover them, if we have to."

Jean swallowed nervously at the thought of that, but let the subject go. "So where are we going?"

"Brussels," he replied as he rang the front desk. "To meet the son of Hauptsturmführer Jürgen Schröter."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 07

Dalca knew that humans sometimes wanted to lose themselves in the masses. They'd change their name, their appearance, and even their personality, all in an effort to start over somewhere new. Usually it was to evade taxes or debts, or to escape someone they desperately needed to be away from. Sometimes it was to avoid punishment for crimes, ranging from petty theft to genocide.

And on very rare occasions, it was to avoid having their head lopped off by the White Council of Wizards.

After the war, Hauptsturmführer Jürgen Schröter had had more reasons than most to disappear. Like other Nazis of significant rank and purpose, Schröter had been wanted for crimes against humanity. Not many knew the details of what he'd done, but there were enough rumors to have his name added to the list of Most Wanted.

Unlike many of the others, Schröter was also wanted by the White Council. He'd known about the wardens before the night of the ritual, but seeing the Blackstaff in action was enough to terrify the man. The last Dalca had seen of him, Schröter had been set to run. He'd failed Himmler, and Kemmler as well in a fashion. Assuming they'd all be after him, the captain had fled to parts unknown.

But even though he'd changed his name, there were those that could track his escape through magical means. Dalca's contact was uniquely qualified to follow the Nazi's paper trail, and had found where Schröter had settled down after the war.

"Brussels?" Jean asked as their rental car wound its way through the outskirts of the city. Their destination was on a secluded piece of property, so they were well beyond the hustle-bustle of downtown.

It had been several hours worth of driving to get there, and the girl was itching to remove her manacles. With no word from Mara, Jean had used the travel time to continue narrowing down her search. The car's wifi had allowed her to peruse the web, but her attention was now on the surrounding environs as they grew closer.

"Why not?" Dalca said with a shrug. "It's a lovely city. I lived here for a while."

Jean took note of the rare information about his past, but didn't comment on it. "I don't know, I just figured we'd be heading for Argentina or something."

Dalca rolled his eyes. "Don't even start with that."

"What?" Jean asked. "I thought they had a whole system to smuggle Nazis to South America?"

"Yeah, they had ratlines to Argentina and Brazil," Dalca admitted. "But only a fraction of those that fled ended up there."

"Really?" Jean pressed. "Because I've heard—"

"Trust me," Dalca said. "There were thousands of officers and government officials that were wanted for war crimes and 'crimes against humanity'." The last was said with some slight derision. "As if humanity doesn't do horrible things to itself at every turn."

"So?"

"So, how many Nazis did they ever find in South America?" Dalca asked. "Out of the _thousands_ that went missing?"

"I don't know," Jean admitted.

Dalca shot her a flat-looked glance. "About a dozen."

Jean frowned. "Then where did they go?"

"Everywhere," Dalca said. "Plenty _did_ use the rat lines to South America. Some remained hidden in Germany. Some spread across Europe, while others went to America and Australia. Even Asia, Africa and the Middle East," Dalca added. "Most of them were never found. They changed their names and their histories, established new lives for themselves, and did their best to forget about the past."

"So how did your contact find this guy's family when the investigators couldn't?" Jean finally asked.

"Our client has access to unique resources," Dalca replied.

"Client?" Jean said, sitting up. "What do you mean, client?"

"This is the place," Dalca said, ignoring her. He turned the rental car into the lane leading to their destination. It was a pleasant drive through a public park southeast of the city. He took it slow on the paver driveway, so the building crept into view as they reached the clearing.

Jean's question was forgotten as she looked upon Kasteel ter Meeren.

As castles went, it wasn't awe-inspiring. It looked more like a country estate house, a smaller abode made entirely of brick and stone, than some grand soaring European castle. Spanning two stories, with a third that was little more than attic space, there was an impressive amount of square footage. Despite its more humble appearance, it was still regal, to be sure. It was old world architecture, back when people had cared about earthly beauty rather than shiny steel and glass.

The building was L shaped, with the main entrance in the crook between the two branches. On approach, they could make out the two features that had made it seem more like a castle than a manor house: the octagonal tower atop the end of one branch, and the private chapel on the other.

"Whoa," Jean said, her head dipped low to look at the building. "You're telling me a former Nazi in hiding lives in a castle like this?"

"No," Dalca said. "His son."

And despite the man's residing there, it wasn't a family home. Dalca had read about it that morning while Jean was packing up, and learned what he could of its caretakers.

Kasteel Ter Meeren had been built in the twelfth century as nothing more than a square tower keep that would function as a prison. Additions had been made over the centuries as its role changed, until it became one of the predominant castles in the region during the fifteenth century. Royalty had walked its halls, including Charles V and William the Orange.

More additions were made come the nineteenth century, when the western wing was added along with a coach-house. The castle was used by different families over the years, until the upkeep of the home became too expensive. It passed into public domain late in the last century, and had functioned as a park ever since.

The ponds, pathways, and hunting pavilion had seen irregular visitors, as had the vegetable garden and greenhouses. Tours had been provided of the building, but most of that had trickled off due to the state of disrepair.

Despite public funding keeping the place open, there wasn't enough to halt its decay. Efforts at restoring the castle always seemed to fall through, and the grounds had slowly been left to deteriorate. Jöhan Becker, son of the late Jürgen Becker, was now the sole caretaker of the estate.

As they climbed out of the car, Jean ran her hands over her arms as she looked up at the mansion. "It's a shame it's so run down."

"That's the nature of time," Dalca replied. "Everything has its day, and then its time passes." The girl shot him an odd look, and Dalca shrugged. "Sorry, feeling a little melancholy all of a sudden."

There was a chill in the summer air as the two made their way up to the mansion's door. As a chime rang, Jean peeked inside through a window. "There's not much in there."

"That wing is empty," an aged voice called out from behind them. The two turned to see an old man heading toward them from the other branch of the house. He must have heard Jean speaking English, as he did the same, with a notable Dutch accent that was common in northern Belgium.

As he approached, Dalca studied him. "Jöhan Becker?" he asked, although he didn't really need the confirmation. The man looked a lot like his father had. Unlike old Jürgen, his son had a full head of white hair, which he kept back in a loose pony-tail. He looked to be about seventy, which made him a good thirty years older than Schröter had been when Dalca had worked with the man. From the profile his contact had provided Dalca, he knew that Jöhan had been born shortly after Schröter had fled Germany.

"That is I," the old man confirmed, a quizzical look crossing his face. "Have we met?"

"No," Dalca said as he stepped down from the porch. The old man came to a stop and leaned heavily on his cane. "I knew your father."

That elicited a pleasant laugh from the man. "That would certainly be a trick, young man. You don't look a day over thirty-five, but my father passed a good forty years ago."

"Sorry, I misspoke," Dalca said. "I knew _of_ your father. My own spoke of him."

"Did he?" Jöhan said, still surprised.

"He did," Dalca confirmed. "They served together, back during the war."

At that, a confused look passed over Jöhan's face as he looked back and forth between Dalca and Jean. "That's odd. Are you sure you have the right man? My father didn't serve in the war."

"It was my understanding that he did," Dalca said gently. "In Germany."

"I'm afraid you must be mistaken," Jöhan insisted. "My family fled Germany during the war, and settled here. To hear my mother tell it, they couldn't bring themselves to return after it was all over. Not with what they'd seen."

Dalca nodded, even as he listened to the steady rhythm of the man's heart. If he was lying, he was the best Dalca had ever met. It seemed that Jöhan Becker had no clue about his family's past.

Which meant their trip was a waste of time.

"Perhaps my father mis-remembered," Dalca conceded.

Jöhan nodded agreeably enough. "That's understandable. I'm confused myself much of the time these days."

Dalca turned to Jean, who looked back to the house. "This is a beautiful home."

"Thank you," the old man said fondly. "It's been a life's work just keeping the walls upright."

"You said this wing was empty?" the girl asked.

"Oh, yes," the man replied. "I reside in a few rooms beside the chapel. We've been able to keep that tidy over the years."

"We?" Dalca asked.

"Ah, well, my father was caretaker here before me," the old man said as he shuffled toward the door. When he reached it, he searched about for an old set of iron keys. "Both of my parents lived here until they passed. I taught at the university for a while, but returned once they were gone."

Once he'd found the right key, Jöhan got the door open, and led the way inside. Dalca and Jean trailed after him, to find themselves in an empty and rundown foyer. Traces of the ancient finery were still present, with faded wallpaper and ornate crown molding on the walls. The rest had been stripped bare, save for the dust and stale air of an old home.

Dalca was slightly surprised at the lack of a threshold. An old manor house like that should have had a substantial build-up of magical energy. But seeing as the place hadn't belonged to one family for any length of time, and had been open to the public for the last few decades, whatever threshold had existed must have faded.

"We used to have a staff," the old man continued after closing the door after them. "But the funds aren't what they once were. We still open seasonally, but, as you can see…" the man smiled pleasantly as he trailed off. "This is our busiest time, and, well…" He shrugged.

"It's a shame," Jean said. "I can only imagine how this place must have looked."

"Ah, well, I can show you," Jöhan said. The old man began to shuffle off, and Jean moved to follow. Dalca sighed, but with little choice in the matter, trailed after.

The three made their way through the remnants of the old castle. Everything was in a similar state of deterioration as the front hall. Jöhan would stop on occasion and point something out, like a museum curator, before continuing on. Eventually they reached another locked door, which he managed to get open.

Dalca could feel the difference as soon as they passed through. Unlike the rest of the house, the chapel wing was well-kept and clean. Cool air swirled in the space from the air conditioning, and Jean rubbed her arms again.

"Sorry for the cold, my dear," Jöhan said apologetically to her. "I've found I prefer it as I grow older."

"Oh, that's alright," she replied, embarrassed to have made the man feel put out in his own home.

The man led them on, showing them the living space he had on the first floor. It was a modest lifestyle, consisting of a small kitchenette, bedroom, and library. Dalca lingered in the last for a moment, looking over the books and pictures.

"Are any of these your father's?" he asked, gesturing toward the books.

"Most of them," Jöhan confirmed. "Some were the previous caretaker's, while some are donations. When the local libraries have duplicates, they'll sometimes give old books a home in places like this. So tourists don't see empty shelves." The man wiggled his eyebrows mischievously, before leading them out. "The rest are some volumes my father collected."

Dalca let Jean head out first. When the other two were out of sight, he quickly picked up a picture-frame from a side table. He managed to remove the back and slip the picture into a pocket in record time, before joining the others in the hall leading to the chapel.

"This, of course, is my pride and joy," Jöhan said as he led them in. "My own little space to speak to my God."

The chapel was beautiful like so many others, with old stone walls and arching ceilings. Stained cathedral glass caught the summer light, casting colorful shades across the wood pews and stone floor. There was only a handful of the bench seats still there, but those that remained were well cared for.

There was a raised floor in the chancel, where a small alter sat beneath several of the windows. The space was sparse and empty, yet contained a humble beauty.

"It must be lonely living here alone," Dalca asked softly as he looked over the space.

"Oh, it's not so bad," the old man said as he limped about on his cane. "And one is never truly alone in a place of worship."

Dalca nodded. "Still, it seems like too much for just one man to take care of."

"I manage," Jöhan said humbly. "Although my daughter helps whenever she can."

"Daughter?" Jean asked.

"Yes. Jöhanna," he said with a fond smile. "She was raised here, just as I was. Her mother passed many years ago, but the two of us have managed well enough. She's not here just now, or I'd introduce you."

"I'm sure she's lovely," Dalca said. "What does she do?"

"She's a veterinarian," Jöhan said.

"Ah. Large animal?"

"Why yes," Jöhan confirmed. "She's always loved animals. We even considered getting a petting zoo, to try and lure in more visitors. But getting approval proved to be too much."

"Oh, I don't know," Dalca said. "It'd probably bring the kids in. Wouldn't take much. A small pen to keep some oxen and calves. Maybe an ewe or two."

Jean turned at his choice of words, while the old man smiled a thin but pleasant smile. "Alas, such things are out of our hands."

"I've seen too many people let dreams slip through their fingers," Dalca said softly.

Jöhan shook his head. "Can you imagine me trying keep up with all those critters?"

"Shouldn't be too hard," Dalca replied. More softly he added. "Just cut some tendons…"

"What was that?" Jöhan asked.

"Nothing," Dalca said, before offering a hand. "Thank you for showing us around."

"Of course," Jöhan said with a smile as they shook. Dalca wasn't too surprised at the lack of magical talent within the man. "Come back anytime."

Jean took her turn shaking the man's hand in thanks, and then he led them out another entrance. They waived as they walked down the drive toward the car. The man disappeared back into the mansion as they settled in.

"So?" Dalca asked as he started down the driveway.

"I don't know," Jean replied. "He seemed like a nice old man. Hard to imagine him performing dark magic rituals."

"Maybe he doesn't," Dalca replied. "But his father did. And there were quite a few practitioning books in that collection."

"Were there?" Jean asked, taking an interest.

"Quite a few." A thoughtful looked came over Dalca's face as he considered different options. Despite his suspicions, Jöhan hadn't reacted to Dalca's goading, and his heart-rate had never indicated any deception. "Maybe the old man is innocent. Maybe his father kept it a secret from him."

"Then who's doing it now that Schröter is dead?" Jean asked.

"The daughter?" Dalca proposed.

Jean considered it. "How old did your contact say she was?"

"Forty."

"Too young to have picked up things from her grandfather," Jean observed, doing the math.

"Maybe she found his old black book?" Dalca said.

"Seems like a stretch," Jean said with a shake of her head.

"Yeah. I mean, who would get their hands on a magic book and just start experimenting with it without knowing what she was doing?"

Jean shot him a flat look. "Ha-ha."

"However she learned about it, the daughter is involved," Dalca declared.

"Why are you so certain?"

"Because I've met her," Dalca said, drawing the picture from his pocket and passing it to Jean.

The girl looked the photo over. It was an old one, apparently taken a good twenty years earlier. Jöhan was a younger man, still quick with a smile. Beside him was the blond girl Dalca presumed to be Jöhanna.

"I don't recognize her," Jean confessed.

Dalca shrugged. "You were too busy fighting lycanthropes to see when she kicked my ass."

Jean's eyes widened. "This is the woman from the warehouse?"

"Definitely," Dalca said. "She even smells like her father, who in turns smells like his. Combine that with Schröter being the only one that had the full ritual in his book, the collection back there, and the fact that she's running with a pack of lycanthropes, just like her grandfather…"

"She's definitely the one."

"Yup."

"So what now?" Jean asked. "We know who, and how, and when? We just need to figure out where?"

"That's up to you," Dalca said, not admitting that he was growing worried at Mara's continued absence. "Let's review what you've found."

Jean nodded. "I've got a couple possibilities. But we'll need to start heading back if we're going to reach either by nightfall."

Dalca obeyed, and the two set out for Germany, leaving the castle behind.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

It was an hour before nightfall when Mara finally returned, popping into reality with a swirl of indignation.

"There you are!" she exclaimed as she settled onto Jean's shoulder. "What have you two been doing all day?!"

"Looking for clues," Dalca replied calmly, as if he hadn't been worrying about her only moments earlier.

"Well, you're looking in the wrong place!"

Said place was Magdeburg, Germany. They'd parked their vehicle across from Kahlenbergstift, the Kahlenberg Pen Hospital that was one of two locations that Jean had pinpointed along the dark ley line. Originally a nursing home, it had been converted to a hospital in the second World War. Like the Beelitz sanatorium, it had been turned over to Soviet occupation after the war, and continued as a hospital for years to come. With the withdrawal of the Soviets, the place had been left to rot, just like the sanatorium had. The building looked to be growing more decrepit by the minute, and Dalca had been sure Jean was on the right track.

That was, right up until Mara told them otherwise.

"Where is it, then?" Jean asked.

"Goslar," the water vâlvă replied.

Jean hissed in frustration. "Damnit. Let me guess, the Königsberg Sanatorium?"

"If you know _that_ , why are you _here?!_ " Mara groaned.

"It was on our list," Dalca replied somewhat shortly. "We went with Magdeburg because it was closer to Beelitz. Maybe if you'd shown up earlier—"

"I've been looking for you all day!" the tiny fairy shot back. "Between tracking the Wolfshits—" because that was apparently a nickname she'd taken to, "—and the wizards, I've been all over this forsaken countryside!"

"Wait, the wizards?" Dalca asked.

"Yes! The wizards! The ones you spared, and who are now preparing to _raid the Wolfshits at the Sanatorium!_ "

Dalca turned to Jean. "How long did you say it would take to get there?"

"About an hour and a half."

Dalca started up the engine. "We'll see if we can do better."

* * *

An hour and eleven minutes later, the three pulled to a stop near the end of the Königsberg Sanatorium driveway. The place was situated in the middle of the woods, far from the town itself.

"What is it with these people and abandoned hospitals?" Jean asked as they looked at the ruins of the old hospital.

"It's like I told you," Dalca said. "Places remember things long after people forget them."

En route to Goslar, Jean had relayed the story of the place. Built in 1895, the facility had been in use for over fifty years before its traffic began to decline with the drop-off in tuberculosis cases. After that, it became a hospital for the treatment and care of mentally handicapped children.

It'd only served that function for ten years before being shut down. Shortly after, the place had suffered from a severe fire that left the grounds unusable. It'd been derelict ever since, and was now apparently being prepared for dark magic rituals.

"Why? Because people die in hospitals?" Jean asked.

"That's part of it," Dalca confirmed. "Places of death, suffering, and despair are ideal for dark magics. Combine that with the ley line crossing through here, and it's no wonder why people have left these places abandoned rather than rebuilding on them."

The three quickly exited the vehicle and prepared themselves for whatever awaited. Neither Dalca nor Jean bothered with concealing their swords with the illusion spell; they were sure they'd be drawn in earnest shortly.

Once they were ready, the two started up the driveway, with Mara scouting ahead. It didn't take them long to spot the rental truck parked in front of what remained of the entrance. There was no activity around it, which suggested everyone was already inside.

Mara had informed them on the drive that the lycanthropes and Jöhanna Becker had spent the afternoon gathering additional supplies, including replacements for what they hadn't recovered from the police warehouse, and the livestock required for the sacrifice.

When Jean had asked if that included a child, Mara had replied, "Of course. I said the livestock, didn't I?"

That hadn't gone over well, and the two hadn't said much to each other since.

When Mara returned from scouting, it was to Dalca's shoulder rather than the girl's. "Where are the wizards?"

"Approaching from the back," she informed them. "You're going to have to hurry. The sorceress has already begun her chanting."

"Starting a bit early?" Dalca mused. He shot a glance at the sky, which was only just darkening. But the moon was in the sky, so apparently that was enough.

"I think they're worried they'll be interrupted," Mara replied sardonically.

"Well, I'd hate to disappoint," Dalca said.

Motioning for Jean to follow, he started to run toward the building. The girl chanted behind him, putting the visual veil up to conceal their approach. It wasn't perfect, but if he bothered to cast the scent and sound veil as well, the lycanthropes wouldn't detect their approach in time. But as Dalca wasn't keen on wasting power before facing at least a dozen berserkers, two wizards, and a sorceress with too much power, he didn't bother.

Five strides from the door, Dalca picked up the sound of heartbeats inside. His stiletto was already in his hand, and as he ran through the gaping portal, his arm swung to the side, driving the tip into the skull of the waiting lycanthrope.

His other hand came up bearing the Luger, and the toggle snapped backward and up as he fired at the second berserker a few steps into the front room, who toppled over almost at the same instant as the first.

The shot was no louder than the sound of blowing air across the lip of a bottle. It certainly wasn't enough to alert any of the others of their arrival, but with the lycanthropes already benefiting from unnatural enhancements, Dalca wasn't going to assume they'd remained ignorant. He just hoped the odor from the fire and the sacrifices would mask the scent of their fallen comrades' blood.

He paused at the next door, with Jean coming to a halt beside him. If it had been anyone else, they would have still been trailing behind, but she'd kept up well enough. That was mostly due to her magics.

"Follow me," Dalca whispered, running on once he'd pinpointed the location of the others.

Another lycanthrope fell to a bullet to the brain as Dalca and Jean ran down a hallway. Both leapt over the still twitching body, not sparing it a second glance. By the time the man's heart had stopped, they were at the door at the far end.

Dalca cocked his head and listened. Beyond the door, he could hear an all too familiar chanting. Drum beats accompanied the words, which did little to help him hear exactly where everyone was in the room. His ears could filter different sounds, but they weren't _that_ good.

"I can't pinpoint them," he whispered to Jean and Mara, both of whom were crouched and ready. "We're going to have to go in blind and take them out as quickly as possible." He looked to the girl. "You've got your shield ready?"

The girl nodded and wiggled her left forearm, which contained a snake bracelet encircling her wrist.

"Alright, lets—" he began, until an explosion shook the walls of the old building.

"The wizards are here," Mara observed.

Screaming erupted in the room beyond the door, and the drum cadence faltered as the sounds of a struggle filtered through. It seemed that Wagner and Jonson had found another way in, and were already working at stopping the sorceress.

"We can't let them have all the fun," Dalca said grimly. "Just watch out for them; they'll be gunning for us, too."

With that, he stepped back and kicked the door open, before charging inside.

The room was in chaos as the remaining lycanthropes tried to get at the wizards, who hadn't bothered with a door so much as preceding with blowing open one of the walls. Wagner was sending the berserkers left and right with concentrated bursts of kinetic energy, although like every mortal fool, was failing to kill them in the process.

Dalca opened fire on the lycanthropes from behind, drawing a second magazine even while the first was still almost full. In the swirling chaos of smoke, ash, and writhing berserkers, he found that it took more than one shot to take a couple of them down. When the magazine was empty, he quickly popped it free and slid the second home. The gun puffed again and again, putting each man and woman down before they'd even realized there was anyone to contend with other than the wizards.

Jonson saw them before any of the defenders, and seemed to shout something to Wagner. The old wizard turned quickly, which meant he missed the lycanthrope coming at him from the side.

Dalca's Luger puffed again, and the running berserker tumbled to a heap before the wizard, who looked down at her with some mild surprise. After taking a moment to shake off his confusion, the wizard got back to work, concentrating on disrupting the ritual rather than attacking Dalca.

When the second magazine was empty, Dalca holstered the gun. A glance back confirmed that Jean was still on her feet, having taken out two lycanthropes that had tried to come at them from behind. Most of them were down, with only a half dozen or so remaining. There'd been more than Dalca had guessed there'd be, and much more than the party that had survived the raid at the warehouse.

Three lycanthropes were standing by with the animal sacrifices, ready to toss them into what was clearly a make-shift cauldron. Rather than separating an iron pit with dividers, they'd simply dug a hole into the ground and filled it with coals and woods. Flames flickered up from the pit, and the sorceress stood by with her hand raised up, as if summoning the fires herself.

The ritual reached its peak, and the three lycanthropes all tossed the assorted sacrifices into the pit. The animals screeched and squealed before their breaths were extinguished by the roar of the flames.

When the woman raised her other arm up in a gesture of offering, a fourth lycanthrope tossed a young girl into the pit.

She screamed as fire and brimstone blazed beneath her.

A cracking sound echoed through the room as she fell.

Her cry ended abruptly when Dalca tugged back on the lava line that had snapped around her waist, and she flew across the room to him.

"No!" the sorceress screamed as the child slammed into Dalca's chest. He quickly extinguished the power fueling the rope of igneous rock, and it crumbled away as he turned toward Jean.

"Go," he said. His apprentice nodded and seized the girl, a tiny slip of a thing not yet eleven years old, if Dalca was going to hazard a guess.

With unnatural strength, Jean slung the girl into a fireman's carry and darted out the door, her pink-tinged blade in her hand in case anyone tried to stop her.

Dalca turned back as the four lycanthropes that had born the sacrifices charged him. His sword sprang from its sheath as he stowed the stiletto away, replacing the smaller black blade with the larger. The symbols carved into the weapon shone in the fiery light as he met their charge with his own.

Bronze glinted on tooth and nail, but none of the berserkers had any true weapons. Dalca reaped the first two as they came, his dark blade flashing up and down as he took life and limb from each. The second two wavered upon seeing their comrades fall, but Dalca did not.

His sword sank into the heart of one, before a kick sent him flying off the blade. The second tried to run, but the stiletto came out in a flash before hurtling across the room. It plunged into the man's neck from behind, and he toppled over face first.

With the last of the servants dead, Dalca turned to the sorceress, who for some reason was still chanting. After a moment, Dalca realized why.

The lycanthrope he'd kicked free of his blade had sailed a little too far, and ended up in the cauldron. It might not have been the child they thought they needed, but his life was apparently enough.

"Damnit," Dalca cursed.

A power began to fill the air as she screamed triumphantly. Dalca wasn't sure exactly what was coming, but he knew he had to try and stop it. He raised his arm and fired a blast of black lightning at the woman, which raked her side.

"Ungh!" she grunted as the power tore at her. Blood filled the air as she toppled back, a distressed look being cast toward Dalca as she realized she'd been hit.

As she fell, a furious roar erupted from behind her, and Dalca's gaze shifted.

A massive form stood about a dozen feet from the cauldron. Dalca hadn't spared much thought to what the wizards had been doing, but he could see that they'd been contending with a few lycanthropes of their own, including one that stood well over Dalca's considerable height.

The man ran at Dalca, his large arms pistoning beside him as he moved with incredible speed. He was faster than a mortal had any right to be.

Especially one that should have been dead.

"Herzog?" Dalca breathed as the leader of the defunct Wolfsherzen charged him.

Rather than greeting him as an old friend, Herzog lashed a fist out that sent Dalca into a wall.

As Dalca crashed into it, Herzog was there, grabbing his shirt to wrench him out of the broken drywall. A brazen swipe of claws raked at Dalca's face before he could gather his thoughts, and fiery pain blossomed across his throat and jaw as he was sent spinning to the ground.

Dalca gagged as he clenched a hand to his neck, stumbling away. Power surged through him as he set his own blood on fire, cauterizing the cuts. His skin shone as the wounds boiled, and the flow cut off. It left him singed and scarred, but it kept him alive long enough for Herzog to come finish the job personally.

Before the looming brute got there, Mara appeared on his shoulder. The tiny blue fairy sunk her claws into the man's neck, and Dalca knew what was about to happen. He'd seen it before, as the water vâlvă would manipulate her victim's blood, turning it into a whirlpool that tore them apart from the inside out.

Only, instead of dying, Herzog… grunted.

Dalca blinked in surprise. Mara did as well, until the lycanthrope's hand blurred toward her and wrenched her free. She shouted in alarm as the beast flung her away, and Dalca lost sight of her when she fell into the burning pit.

"NO!" Dalca screamed, a surge of adrenaline fueling him as he watched the tiny fairy disappear into the fiery coals.

As a fae, Mara was vulnerable to all the usual things: iron, thresholds, and her vows. Any of them could hurt her or bind her, ranging from mere inconvenience to potentially killing her.

But more importantly, as a water vâlvă, she was particularly vulnerable to fire.

Dalca threw both hands at Herzog. Still filled with the power from his blood boiling spell, his arms crackled top to bottom as he unleashed a bolt of black lightning almost two feet in diameter. The bolt struck Herzog in the chest, and the lycanthrope disappeared as the power flung him across the room.

His fate didn't matter to Dalca. As soon as the spell had been triggered, he was already moving for the cauldron. When he reached the edge he didn't hesitate, but waded in as he searched for the tiny fairy.

"Mara!" he screamed, shifting through the coals. "Mara!"

"What?"

Dalca blinked, and looked up and around for the voice. "Mara?"

"That was an impressive bolt, my lord," the water vâlvă said as she leaned down across his forehead from where she perched on the top of his head.

"When did you…?"

"I haven't seen a bolt like that since Fatima," Mara said, her black eyes wide.

"That was… you weren't at Fatima…" Dalca plucked the fairy from atop his head. "What happened?"

"I shifted to the Never-never just before I landed," the tiny fairy explained. "Now can we please get out of the fiery pit of death?"

"Oh. Right," Dalca said, still stunned. He waded back through the coals and out, noting as he did that his pants had burned away from the thighs down.

"Seriously, that was a lot of power," Mara continued, clearly impressed. She turned as she continued. "I didn't realize you care—"

Her words cut off, and Dalca turned to see what had drawn her attention. When he spotted it, it was his turn to gape.

What was left of Herzog was against the far wall. The bolt of black lightning had slammed him into it, with some of the energy crashing through the surface behind him. He'd crumpled to the floor in front of it, and Jöhanna Becker had stumbled across the room to join him. The sorceress was trying to pull him up, as if someone that had taken a disintegrating shot to the torso would ever be able to stand again.

But if the last day had taught Dalca anything, it was that he knew absolutely nothing.

As he watched in disbelief, Jöhanna pulled Herzog to his feet. Dalca could only stare at the golden mess he'd made of his old partner in crime. What should have been a smoking hole in his chest was instead a burnt and bloody smear of flesh. Streaks of ashen gold ran down his legs as his amber blood ran freely like molten metal.

A similar wound marked Jöhanna's side where his first bolt had struck her. Just like Herzog, her blood was distinctly not the more traditional crimson of a mortal, and instead was a dark bronze in color. The two clung to each other as they stood, before beginning their retreat out the hole the wizards had created in the wall.

Dalca would have gone after them, if it hadn't been for the bronze child standing between him and them.

A motion to one side drew Dalca's gaze, and he saw Jonson trying to rise from where Herzog had laid him out. The young wizard looked even worse than he had that morning when he'd had a broken arm and numerous lacerations. His face was now bloodied and swollen, and he could only open one eye. But still he rose to face the thing that had appeared.

" _Acribus!_ " the boy shouted through busted lips, even as he thrust his good arm forward. His power surged out in a kinetic wave, one that his master would have been impressed with.

The bronze boy didn't even defend himself. The power simply washed over him, cracking the floor and wall beyond but leaving the small figure unharmed. It was almost as if he hadn't even felt the attack.

But as his head slowly turned toward the wizard, Dalca knew that it had.

"No!" Dalca shouted, even as the brazen child sent a pulse of bone-crushing power at Jonson.

The wizard's arm rose to create a shield before him. His efforts were aided by Wagner, who Dalca hadn't even noticed behind the young man until he rolled onto his side and projected his own shield in front of his apprentice.

The child's power crashed into one after the other, shattering both.

Only the third shield, the one that sprung up at the last moment, spared them. The sheer will of the bronze boy crashed against it, splintering off the edges as cracks appeared in its surface. Power washed to either side of it, enough to shatter walls, ceiling, and floor.

Wagner blinked in surprise at the black shield that had saved the wizards lives, before looking toward Dalca in disbelief.

And then the damage to the building took its toll, and the ceiling on that side of the structure collapsed upon both of the wizards.

"No…" Dalca sighed exhaustedly as he stumbled back, almost falling to his knees. The coals from the cauldron had been tossed about at some point, which resulted in half the room slowly igniting into flames. The ceiling was sagging all around, and he could hear the creaks and moans of the burning rafters as they threatened to give way. But they held out, leaving Dalca and the boy standing.

Dalca turned to the creature, his skin beginning to glow as he fueled himself with power.

"No, my lord! It is the god!" Mara whispered urgently from his shoulder. "The Moloch that Schröter sought to raise." She pressed herself close to him. "You cannot face it, my lord. It is too powerful."

" **My lord** ," a metallic voice echoed, the bronze head tilting again as it seemed to ponder the words. Surely it was too far away to hear, and yet clearly it had. Its three eyes blinked, each as black as the night and enshrouded in an amber light that shone through the particles of dust in the air, each obsidian orb studying them with a mild curiosity. " **Are you a lord, father?** " There was an eerie amusement to its tone.

"Father?" Mara breathed, somehow tearing her eyes away from the boy to shoot a bewildered look at Dalca.

"Born of your power," Dalca muttered darkly.

" **Just so, father** ," the bronze figure replied. Its head tilted again. " **Why do you seek to harm my acolytes, lord father?** "

"I was looking for you," Dalca replied.

The three-eyed statue shifted. " **Why do you seek me, lord father?** "

"Why wouldn't a proud pappy want to visit his kid every once in a while?" Dalca retorted.

The bronze head tilted the other way as he spoke, his words filled with mocking laughter. " **I do not believe you, lord father.** "

"That hurts," Dalca said with a pained voice. "What did I ever do to you?" he asked, shifting his weight. He was feeling the aches from Herzog's bruising attacks, which had been just as amplified as Jöhanna's had been in the warehouse. Dalca needed to rest before he could so much as move, much less fight. But he didn't think the demon child would let him.

" **You ran from me, lord father** ," the bronze figure replied.

"What?" Mara hissed. "What does he mean?"

"Um…" Dalca said. "It wasn't like that."

" **You did not believe in me, lord father** ," the metallic voice said, somehow growing colder as the three obsidian eyes narrowed. " **You do not worship me**."

"Well, no," Dalca said. "I—"

" **You must worship me**."

The voice didn't grow any louder, but somehow it grew deeper, in a wholly unnatural way. The air seemed to pulse with power, causing the walls that were still standing to shake in the wake of the words.

"I'm not really the worshiping type," Dalca said.

" **You must** ** _worship me_** ," the voice reiterated, growing insistent.

The air trembled at that, causing another part of the decrepit ceiling to collapse. The ground shook, and Dalca swore he could hear the coals in the fire pit trembling. The fires that had spread to the rafters and walls flickered and waved beneath unseen torrents of power.

"Is that what the others are doing, Moloch?" Dalca asked. "Have they been fueling you all these years, making you stronger?"

" **My good father has worshiped me** ," Moloch replied. " **My acolytes have worshiped me**."

"Good father? Who—" Dalca began, but then froze.

It all made sense.

 _Born of your power. Only the power that brought it forth._

Dalca laughed bitterly at his foolishness.

She'd known all along, hadn't she?

" **Will you worship me, lord father?** "

As tempting as it was to say yes, to say anything to preserve his life, Dalca found himself shaking his head. "No. You're no god. You're not even my child. You're just a demon that Schröter summoned up."

Three obsidian eyes blinked as the head tilted again. " **You do not understand, lord father**."

"Oh, I understand," Dalca said with weak laugh. "All too late, I understand."

The demon Moloch waited another moment, to see if Dalca would change his mind. When he didn't, the bronze head nodded slightly. " **So be it. Goodbye, lord father.** "

Dalca managed to get a shield of black light up before the power hit him, but it didn't do much good. His power shattered under the greater will of the demon, the force of it hitting him harder than anything he'd ever felt.

And then there was nothing but darkness as the world went away.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Dalca woke, which was surprising.

What's more, he awoke on a bed, which was decidedly pleasant. The pain he was feeling _wasn_ _'_ _t_ , but he'd felt pain before. You didn't spend centuries living without feeling centuries of pain. He could live with pain, because that's what living was.

Dalca pushed himself up, and began to second guess that sentiment.

"Lie back," Jean said from across the room. "You need to rest."

"How long was I out?" he asked, ignoring her. Looking around, he realized they were probably in the nicest motel room Goslar had to offer.

"All night," she replied. When he managed to turn his head her way, he saw that she was sitting on a chair near the door. It seemed she'd taken up a sentry position.

Dalca wasn't sure what she was defending against, considering that the two wizards were already in the room.

"It looks like it survived," Wagner muttered darkly from the other bed.

Dalca shifted to look over at him, and saw that the man was wrapped head to toe in bandages. Beside him lay his apprentice, who was similarly attired. "So did you," Dalca observed. "You're a persistent roach, I'll give you that."

Wagner's smoky cobalt eyes narrowed, but he didn't rise to the bait. Dalca shifted his gaze back to Jean. "What's our situation?"

"Mara is sulking outside," the girl replied. When Dalca quirked an eyebrow at her, Jean shrugged. "She didn't like healing _them_."

Wagner just grunted on the other bed, clearly not entirely excited about it himself. "You got the girl clear?" Dalca asked.

Jean nodded. "I dropped her off at the police station after we finished dragging you all out from beneath the rubble. Barely got you out before the place went up in flames." Her gaze drifted back toward the window, where she kept a dutiful eye on the crack between the curtains. Dalca could see she was tired, and likely hadn't rested. "I saw some of the Wolfshits escaping, and we've been worried they'll come back to finish us off."

"Here. Swap with me," Dalca said as he sat up. Jean turned back, ready to protest, but Dalca waived her off as he managed to get his legs off the bed. "You're no good dead on your feet. I can keep an eye out."

"But—"

"Don't sweat it," Dalca said as he forced himself up. He made sure the pain didn't show through on his face, but there was no concealing it from his posture. "They won't bother coming after us."

Jean rose reluctantly as he approached. "Why do you say that?"

"Because they think we're dead," he replied as he settled into her seat.

The girl hovered for a moment, before finally heading to the restroom. After a couple of minutes, she returned, and slipped beneath the covers of the bed Dalca had just vacated. It didn't take long for her soft snores to sound across the room.

It was obvious the girl had pushed herself to manage things on her own. While Mara had likely handled the majority of the healing, it had most likely fallen to Jean to dig Dalca and the wizards out from the rubble. She was good with kinetics, and she was stronger than she looked. But it's no small matter to move material in a partially collapsed building that happens to be on fire.

If she'd made any mistakes, it likely would have come down on her, and crushed the rest of them in the process. And even assuming that had gone off without a hitch, she'd then been left with the unenviable task of dragging three grown men to the vehicle, ditching the sacrificial girl, finding a place to stay, and then transporting them inside without anyone noticing.

A long night had been made longer by necessity, as she'd taken up guard duty. Dalca had no doubt that Mara could have handled things, but Jean wasn't the type to take chances. Not with two wardens so close at hand.

One of the two was still awake, his head rotating stiffly as he silently studied Dalca and the girl. Wagner was clearly trying to figure out exactly what was going on, and eventually voiced his concerns. When he did, he did so softly, as if to avoid waking the other two.

"Why did your servant save us?" Wagner asked quietly.

"I don't know," Dalca lied. "I would have left you buried."

"Of that I have no doubt," Wagner replied darkly. He glanced at the girl. "She's a mortal?"

"As mortal as you," Dalca confirmed. "Although considering your ability to survive, I'm beginning to wonder."

Wagner considered that for a moment. "How did you coerce her into serving you?"

"She didn't have a choice in the matter," Dalca said as he kept an eye on the slim beam of light filtering through the curtains.

"I've heard that about you," Wagner said softly. When Dalca turned, it was to find the man's shadowed eyes fixed on his own. "Dubhlainn."

Dalca couldn't help but smile. "Ah. Become a bit of a fan, have we?"

Wagner scowled. "I made it my life's mission to find out everything about you."

"I'm honored, Sunshine," Dalca said as his gaze shifted back to the window. "So what did you learn?"

Dalca asked lightly, even though his interest was anything but light. There were few that knew the details of his situation, and he'd worked hard to keep it that way. Dalca had several contacts in the White Council, who were supposed to monitor any updates to their files on him.

But as none of them had told him that Wagner had survived, he was beginning to question their loyalty. That, or their efficiency. Incompetence was even worse than betrayal, in many ways. Regardless, they'd failed him in that aspect, and failure was not something he tolerated.

"I know the origin of your nickname," Wagner informed him. "I know when and where you first earned it. I traced you through history, looking for any stories of a man bearing a black blade."

"Is that all?" Dalca asked, disappointed.

Wagner's face grew flushed, something Dalca could see even in the dark room. "I know you can change your appearance at will. You take mortal apprentices frequently. You collect the swords of the fallen, among other prizes; and _that_ _'_ _s_ not your original sword," he said, nodding toward the sheathed blade sitting beside Dalca's chair. Jean had kept it close at hand, with her own sitting on the other side.

"And?" Dalca prompted.

"You're a blood drinker," Wagner continued, although he seemed to be floundering. "Which likely means you're a vampire of some sort."

At that, Dalca gave a soft laugh. "Come on, Sunshine. I told you seventy years ago that I wasn't a vampire." He shook his head sadly. "All that time, and you haven't managed to find out _anything_ about me?"

"I know you're not of the Sidhe," he said. "Iron does not burn you, nor does sunlight. And after last night, I learned that fire doesn't either."

Dalca just rolled his eyes. "I thought you said you spent time researching me, not reading what was readily available in the White Council files."

Wagner's eyes narrowed. "I know about Aibell."

Even though he'd prepared himself for it, the name hit Dalca like a battering ram. It took everything he had not to skewer the man on the spot, and even more to act as if the name meant nothing to him. All he did was blink as he looked at the light creeping into the room. "Good on you, Sunshine,' he whispered. "But that's ancient history now. Have you found anything of relevance?"

The old wizard remained quiet for a minute, as if tempted to linger on that name. But eventually he looked away. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, rather than admitting he'd found nothing.

"What? You mean looking for the demon?" Dalca replied. He was pleased that the wizard most inclined to discover his secrets had failed to do so, and let it show with a lopsided smile.

The grin only seemed to irritate the wizard more. "Yes," Wagner replied, his voice terse with frustration. "You did everything you could to summon it seventy years ago. But now you seem to want to stop it." The wizard looked up at him. "Did you have a falling out?"

Dalca laughed again. "I haven't seen that thing since that night," he admitted. "And even then, I thought it was just a figment of my imagination."

Wagner's frown deepened. "Then why were you trying to stop the ritual?"

Dalca pursed his lips for a moment. "How about an equitable trade?" he said instead of answering. "You tell me how you survived all those years ago, and I'll tell you why I'm here."

It was the wizard's turn to snort derisively. "I'm not telling you anything."

Dalca shrugged, and turned his attention back to the window. "So be it."

The room remained silent for several minutes. Dalca could all but hear the wizard arguing with himself; weighing the pros and cons of submitting himself to questioning. Wizards horde knowledge like dragons horde prizes. Giving information goes against their very nature.

Dalca waited the wizard out, knowing the only thing that would override a wizard's sense of secrecy is their desire to ferret out a secret. If he could learn anything about Dalca by sharing, he'd be willing to pay.

"Fine," Wagner finally said. "I'll tell you, but no reneging on your end."

Dalca turned to the wizard and crossed his heart.

The old man took a deep breath. "The truth is, I don't know." Dalca started to protest, but Wagner shot him a look. "I thought I was done for. I tried for a death curse, but everything faded away before I could gather my thoughts."

"That's it?" Dalca pressed, disappointed.

Wagner just shook his head. "I don't know. When I eventually woke, I was in a Council facility receiving treatment. They said Wizard McCoy had brought me in."

That tracked with what Dalca recalled of the evening. Whether Wagner knew of McCoy's other name or not, he couldn't be sure. It wasn't general knowledge, and most of the Council itself had no clue as to the Blackstaff's role in its secret activities.

Still, as powerful as the Blackstaff was, Dalca had never heard of it reviving the dead. At least, not in any way they'd appreciate. "Your heart stopped," he observed.

Wagner frowned. "I told you I didn't have much to offer."

Dalca nodded. "So you did."

Wagner waited expectedly as Dalca settled in, his attention returning to the window. When he neglected to speak up quickly, the old wizard prodded him. "Your turn."

"Huh?" Dalca said, turning back in surprise. "Oh, that? Yeah, I'm not going to tell you anything. I lied."

Dalca turned back to the front, a slight smile playing across the half of his face that the enraged wizard couldn't see. He could feel the power that Wagner had begun to pull into himself, clearly ready to resume the fight they'd started in the basement two nights prior.

He could also feel it as the bandages wrapped around the wizard began to glow, and the power slipped away.

"What the…" Wagner began, looking down in shock at the white fabric wound tightly around his limbs. Faint traces of old runes were barely visible in the meager light shining from within the wraps.

"Healing spells," Dalca informed him. "Similar to the bandage you used in the basement of the sanitarium."

"But," Wagner began, only to shoot a glance at Jean. She appeared to have slept through the exchange, and was on her side facing away.

Jean might not be good at healing magic, but that didn't mean Dalca let it pass. He'd taught her what he knew of such things, so that she could take care of herself. Unfortunately the spells didn't work on Dalca, which meant he was still dependent on Mara for more severe injuries.

"Standard protocol," Dalca continued. "Those spells will siphon any magic you draw in, and direct it toward the pre-crafted healing spells." Dalca's smile grew. "You could take the bandages off, of course. But I'd reach you before the first strip was unwound."

Wagner settle back in the bed, clearly annoyed. But his quick temper had abated, and the glow slowly faded from the bandages as he stopped trying to draw in power. "Creative."

Dalca shrugged. "Not really. You wizards only seem to concern yourself with learning how to blow things up, rather than doing anything useful."

Truth be told, Dalca hadn't been sure Jean had prepared the bandages with the siphoning spell until _after_ Wagner had gotten worked up. But as they'd discussed the possibility of crossing paths with wizards without having thorned manacles at hand, Jean had known to take precautions however she could.

"So," Dalca said. "Do you plan on pursuing the demon?"

Wagner looked up. "Yes."

Dalca nodded. "Very well. My apprentice and I will assist you and yours."

It was Wagner's turn to blink. "What?" he asked. "Why—"

"You can't defeat it on your own," Dalca said, cutting him off. "Neither can I. It's much too powerful for that. It will take all three of us to kill it."

"Three of us?" Wagner asked, clearly not understanding.

"Yes," Dalca confirmed. "You, me, and Schröter."

Wagner's face twisted up in confusion. "The old sorcerer?"

"I'd hardly call him that," Dalca protested. "But yes, the old man that actually summoned him up."

"But he'd have to be…" Wagner said, trailing off as he did the math.

"Just what I thought," Dalca said. "Until I saw Herzog last night."

"Herzog?" Wagner asked.

"The tall fellow of unnatural durability," Dalca said. "I seem to recall catching the end of your fight with him? Where he was mopping the floor with the two of you?"

"I recall," Wagner bit out.

"Herzog was the leader of the Wolfsherzen back during the war," Dalca explained. "The lycanthrope pack that served Jürgen Schröter. The good Hauptsturmführer was in charge of summoning up a Moloch demon to help fight the Council. And it turned out he was better at it than I thought."

"I think I remember him," Wagner said, his eyes narrowed as he thought back on his capture. "He's the one you turned me over to after…"

"Yes," Dalca said. "After I captured you."

Wagner frowned. "But he'd be in his nineties at least."

"It seems that Schröter was successful in summoning the Moloch," Dalca explained. "My guess is that he and Herzog have been serving the demon ever since. In return, it's given them some modest power and abilities."

"He did seem better off than he should have, given your attack," Wagner admitted grudgingly. Like all mortals save one, the old wizard would have issues with using magic to kill another mortal. Maybe he was jealous.

Dalca had no such issues, nor did he have qualms about it. "It should have vaporized him. But instead, it seemed to have merely burned him. Did you see that golden liquid covering the wound?" Wagner nodded. "It appeared similar to something his pack-mates had at their disposal in the police warehouse. Although they were hardly as formidable as Herzog."

"So you think this demon… Moloch, you say?" Wagner asked.

"He's _a_ Moloch," Dalca confirmed. When that caused Wagner to frown, he explained. "Moloch isn't so much a name as a title. A whole bunch of old world gods and demons used it back in the day. Sort of like saying its the 'King of' something. Only Schröter knew the thing's actual name."

"So this Moloch is with Schröter?" Wagner surmised. "Any guesses as to where he might be?"

Dalca nodded. "I saw him yesterday."

"What?!" Wagner asked, sitting up in shock. Doing so caused him to wince in pain, and the bandages glowed weakly as a latent draw of magic infused them with more power. "Why didn't you kill him?"

"I didn't realize it was him," Dalca admitted. "He's passing himself off as his own son. The head of hair and the slightly different scent threw me. That, and my own assurance that he must be dead by now." Dalca smiled sanely. "It seems you both have that in common."

"So where is he?" Wagner asked.

"I'll show you," Dalca said, before turning his head slightly. "Jean, bring me the map you were using."

The girl's body tensed on the bed, before slowly rolling over. A blush graced her cheeks as she extracted herself from the covers and headed for her bag.

"She's been awake this whole time?" Wagner guessed.

"Both of them have," Dalca confirmed.

Wagner blinked at that, before turning to the prone form beside him. Jonson gave a half-hearted effort to continue feigning sleep, before he too rolled over, his eyes entirely too fresh for someone having just awoken.

Dalca took the proffered map from Jean, who was still embarrassed at being caught out. But surely she must have realized Dalca could hear her rate of breathing, and knew by that and her waking heartbeat that she wasn't sleeping.

"Thank you," he said, before picking up her sword from beside the chair. Wagner managed to stumble to his feet as Dalca drew the pink-tinged blade from its sheath. Dalca paid the wizard no mind as he walked to the bed and put the map down, followed by the sword.

"Pen?" he asked Jean, who quickly moved to comply. After he had it in hand, Dalca circled several points on the map. "Schwalmtal, where it all began. Beelitz, where they've been conducting sacrifices annually for the last seventy years."

"Why there?" Jean asked as Dalca continued to circle other locations. "Why not where Schröter is?" She must have figured it out as well.

"Because you don't shit where you eat. Or eat where you sleep, maybe," Dalca corrected himself, before pointing to the other locations. "Goslar, where they performed the ritual last night. And Magdeburg, where there's another abandoned hospital on the ley line they might have used."

"Ley line?" Jonson asked.

"A dark ley line, to be precise," Dalca said. He looked up with a frown. "Isn't that how you tracked them to the Königsberg Sanatorium last night?"

"No," Wagner said with a shake of his head. "We used a thaumaturgic tracking spell using the golden metal the lycanthropes had growing out of their fingers and mouths."

The wizard shot a satisfied grin as Dalca took a turn at being surprised. He turned to Jean. "We should have thought of that."

The girl shrugged. "The ley line?"

"Right," Dalca said. He laid the sword across the folded map, and drew a line down the edge of the blade. "All of these locations are on the same ley line. Schröter was particular about his ritual, so the ley line is apparently a requirement."

"So he's somewhere along this line?" Wagner asked.

"Yes," Dalca said as he lifted the sword and unfolded the map. "Just not as close as we originally thought to look."

With the map spread out, Dalca lay the sword back down. Once he had the edge lined up again, he ran the pen along the blade, carrying it further to the west. He finished by pulling the blade away enough to circle a city.

"Brussels?" Wagner asked.

"Kastel ter Meeren," Dalca explained. "It's an ancient mansion that was abandoned around the same time that the war ended."

"You think Moloch set up shop there," Jonson surmised.

"The cold," Jean realized, looking up. "When we were there, I felt the same coldness as at the other sites. I thought it was air conditioning."

"Residue from the ley line," Dalca said.

"So that old man…" Jean continued.

"Was Schröter," Dalca all but growled, his eyes narrowing. "Probably had a good laugh about our visit."

"But you suspected him," Jean said. "Your pointed questions about his daughter, and the petting zoo?"

Dalca just shook his head as the two wizards shared a confused glance. "I thought it might be Becker and his daughter, or maybe just the girl, trying to finish off what Schröter had started. J never guessed it was the man himself."

"So we know where they are," Wagner said, his eyes on the map.

"Sure," Dalca said. "And we know there'll be at least three of them there, all gifted with power from Moloch." Dalca quickly explained about Jöhanna Becker's display of unnatural strength in the police warehouse. "And there's probably at least a few more lycanthropes."

"Why do you say that?" Jonson asked.

Dalca gave him a pitying look. "There's always more lackeys. Haven't you ever seen a Bond movie?"

Jonson just rolled his eyes. "Okay. So the four of us—"

"Five," Dalca corrected. "Mara will help."

"Okay, five of us," the young wizard continued, "against three juiced-up worshipers, an unknown number of lackeys, and a demi-god."

"Wagner and I can take Moloch," Dalca said confidently. The others were clearly surprised at that statement, and understandably so after the display from the previous night. "Trust me. We can do it."

"So you're going to make the two of us take on the rest?" Jonson said with mild disbelief. "I don't know if you noticed, but that Herzog fellow was a handful."

"Only because you weren't expecting him," Dalca said. "This time you'll be ready."

The boy didn't seem convinced, and for that matter, neither did Jean.

"So, are you in?" Dalca asked, looking between the wizards.

Wagner grew quiet as he studied the monster he'd dreamed of killing for a lifetime, who was now proposing they work together. Dalca could see that he wasn't comfortable with the thought, nor was he trusting.

"You never said why you wanted to stop Moloch," Wagner finally said. "How can I know you're not looking to gain the demon's power for yourself somehow? That you won't betray us?"

"You have my word," Dalca replied with a crooked smile. "But if that's not enough…"

Dalca bent to Jean's ear, and whispered something to her. Her eyes widened, but she turned to obey. Dalca took the time to retrieve his stiletto knife, which the girl had likely taken pains to dig out of the rubble of the building. He'd have to remember to thank her for that later.

Once she'd returned with one of her ever-present witchery supplies — a silver flask, in this instance — Dalca cut his own palm with the small black blade, and let his blood run into the container. After a considerable amount was deposited inside, he sent power into his palm. The heat quickly cauterized the small wound, cutting off the flow.

Dalca carefully licked away any and all of the blood that had dribbled onto the knife or flask, and then secured the top. Once it was clean and secure, he tossed the flask to Wagner.

The old man stared at it, and then at Dalca, with undisguised shock.

"We all work together to kill Moloch and the others," Dalca said quietly. "Once the demon is dead, and its servitors dead with it, you'll return my blood. Until then, there'll be a truce between us."

Jonson looked to Wagner, who's face was slowly slipping into a more neutral appearance. Dalca could tell that the wizard was tempted to use the blood then and there to end the monster that had once almost killed him. To enact the revenge he'd dreamed of for seven decades.

But the more responsible part of his mind knew that he couldn't stop Moloch and the others on his own. And if Schröter suspected that their location had been compromised, they might already be preparing to move. Which made it unlikely that Wagner could summon up help from the White Council in time. Not with their numbers depleted and spread thin due to the ongoing war with the Red Court.

No, the warden knew that to end the demon, he'd need to work with the monster.

But that didn't mean he had to like it.

"Very well," Wagner bit out, the words like ashes on his breath. "A truce, until the demon is dead."

Dalca smiled. "Excellent."

Tucking the blade away, he turned to Jean. "Where's my stone?"

"Over here," she said, before retrieving a small smooth stone from the side table. She quickly delivered it to him. "Great. Gather our things," he instructed her.

Turning to the wizards, he slipped the communication stone into his pocket. "We'll meet you in Brussels tonight."

"Ah," Jonson said, shooting a glance at Jean. "We're not going together?"

"No," Dalca said. "I've got to get us a little more help to defeat Moloch."

"I thought you said we could manage?" Wagner said, his eyes narrowed as he looked at Dalca's pocket. He'd obviously seen the communication stone, and was wondering just who Dalca would be calling.

"We can," Dalca assured him. "But a little insurance never hurt anyone. We'll work on that while you guys finish healing. Leave the wraps on until you feel good enough to fight for your lives." Dalca retrieved the discarded pen and map, and quickly jotted down an address he recalled from his time in Brussels. "We'll meet you here just before nightfall."

At that, Dalca helped Jean carry their things out, leaving the two wizards confused and worried.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Dalca waited in a dark place.

Physically, he hadn't gone far. After packing up their things into the car, they'd left Goslar behind, heading west. Mara sat on the dash, still sulking about all of the wizards she'd had to help over the last two days. She wasn't particularly excited about working with them again that night, but she'd finally calmed down after spending a good ten minutes cursing Dalca for a fool.

Once they were in the next town, Dalca had settled in with the communication stone. Jean was in the back seat getting some actual rest. She'd wanted to stay awake to discuss things, but Dalca had informed her in no uncertain terms that she needed to be ready for that night.

With the girl lightly snoring in the back, Dalca had projected his mind into the communication stone and sent a signal to the person he needed to speak to.

He was none too pleased that he had to wait a good half hour before they showed up.

After what seemed like an eternity, the dark realm of the communication stone began to brighten. As it did, Dalca found himself in a room made of stone. Or, that's what it looked like. He was still physically in the car, but his mind was elsewhere, in a fabricated terrain that had been crafted to look like a real place.

Said place began to come into focus as the light grew. Dalca looked at the rounded walls of the room, which formed a nearly perfect sphere. He stood upon a lattice of wooden planks that suspended him above the curved floor of the chamber.

At first glance, it appeared that patterns had been carved into the room. The familiar shapes of the continents could be made out, albeit it reversed, as if looking at them from the inside of the earth. If one looked closer, they'd see that the carvings were actually an illusion; if enough time was spent watching them, say a millennia or two, one might begin to notice the ongoing shifting of the tectonic plates.

A web of criss-crossing lines spread all across the chamber, hovering over the darker continental pattern. Most were straight, while some curved slightly to and fro. Each was a slightly different shade of the rainbow, as each was as unique as any thing could be in the world. Some were bright and brilliant, while others were dark and haunting, casting gloomy shadows on the wall behind them.

Combined, the two collections formed a complete map of every ley line upon the earth.

The lines crossed in front of the only other notable feature of the room, which was a slim dark doorway. It was strategically placed in the Pacific, and was only as large as it could be without concealing any landmarks.

An eerie shuffle crept from within the darkness, echoing around the odd room as something approached. Dalca resisted tapping his foot with impatience as the sound grew closer.

"About time," Dalca muttered as a shadow loomed out of the dark portal. It wavered across the glowing lines of the room, dampening their brilliance as it spread across the empty sphere. One might wonder how a shadow could be cast without a form being back-lit, but the world of the communication stone did not always obey the same physics of the real world. That the approaching creature felt the need to cast such an ominous shadow was indicative of its mood and temperament, which did not seem to be accommodating.

And then, the figure appeared, in all of its squat glory.

He stood about two feet tall, most of which was dedicated to his large head. It seemed to dominate his appearance, dwarfing his leanly muscled chest and torso with its mass. Short, thin arms and legs sprouted from the body and led to over-sized hands and feet, making him look ungainly.

Most of his form was shrouded beneath the wild white beard that graced his jaw. The wispy tip nearly reached the ground, leaving one with the impression that he didn't cut it, so much as let the bottom scrape off as he walked.

A matching bushy mustache concealed pursed lips, and whiskers ran up and down his ruddy face. His large, round ears and bulbous nose managed to peek out from the mane of hair, although each sported their own sprouts of coarse, white bristles. It seemed the only place on his head with any sparsity of hair was his scalp, which retained the barest covering of nebulous strands.

Lightning blue eyes stared out from beneath shaggy eyebrows bent into a disapproving scowl.

"It took you long enough," Dalca grumbled, his mental image of himself in the round room crossing its arms. He looked over the creature, and shook his head tiredly. "Vakhter… I thought we said you'd at least project some clothes on yourself when we spoke.

A grunt escaped the domovoi's lips as it dug at one ear with a thick digit.

"Sorry to intrude on your time," Dalca said with a roll of his eyes. "I need two items from the collection."

At those words, Vakhter's eyes narrowed further.

"Don't give me that," Dalca snapped. "It's my collection. I can do what I like with it."

The short form crossed its slim arms, the knobby fingers of each hand dwarfing his modest biceps as he gripped them. His stance and posture was one of refusal.

"I'll need WCWS246 and… WCWS083," Dalca recited from memory. He flicked his tongue over his lips as he recalled the flavor of Jonson's power. "Yes, 083 will do."

The domovoi didn't budge.

"And I'll need them A.S.A.P.," Dalca insisted. "I can meet you at our old Crossways in Brussels in a few hours."

Vakhter picked his nose, his fat fingertip doing little more than crinkling the hairs that grew from his nostril as he pressed into it.

Dalca sighed. "Vakhter, this is important. I promise I'll add something new to the collection soon."

The domovoi worked his lips as he considered that, and then turned without a word, retreating back through the dark portal. The light illuminating the chamber began to fade as he withdrew, leaving Dalca alone in a dark place once more.

With a thought, Dalca ended the connection, and found himself back in the driver's seat of the car. "What the hell was that about?"

Mara sat on the dashboard, her tiny legs dangling over the vents. "What was what?"

Dalca's conversation with the domovoi had only occurred within the stone itself, which meant Mara hadn't overheard it. "Vakhter was being difficult."

"Isn't he always?" the water vâlvă observed.

"He was being particularly so," Dalca informed her as he put the stone away.

"Well, the last time you spoke, you were removing something from the collection as well." Mara shrugged. "You know he doesn't like you removing things from his halls."

"They're _my_ halls," Dalca grumbled. "It's _my_ collection. He's just the keeper of the Keep. He's basically a curator."

Mara rolled her eyes. "You picked him." Dalca grunted at that. "And besides, you missed his birthday."

"I did not…" Dalca began, before trailing off as he did the math. "We said we're only celebrating centennials now."

Mara nodded. "Which is what you missed."

"When?"

"Several months ago."

Dalca frowned. "Before or after—"

"After," Mara answered.

"Why didn't you remind me?" Dalca grumbled.

"You said you didn't need to be reminded," Mara replied smartly. "You know, after the _last_ time I had to remind you."

Dalca puffed air between his lips while casting a glance back at Jean, making sure she was still asleep. Her snores were genuine, which meant she still knew nothing of Vakhter. "Alright. I'll make it up to him."

"I have an idea on that front," Mara said as Dalca started up the car.

"Good," Dalca said. He cast a glance at the tiny fairy. "I didn't miss yours, did I?"

"Nope," Mara said. "You've got a few years before I have another."

"Good," Dalca said. Just to be clear, he added, "I knew that."

Mara snorted, and they started the long journey to Brussels.

* * *

Several hours later, Dalca stood alone in a field. It was a secluded stretch of land outside of the city. Dalca had purchased it a long time ago, and left it undeveloped, just as he'd done in countless other places around the world. It'd do him no good to have anyone building a condominium over the convergence of ley lines that Vakhter could use to create Ways to the Keep.

He sent another pulse of power into the stone, the equivalent of ringing the doorbell on Vakhter's end. He'd been waiting for half an hour, which was thirty minutes longer than he should have had to.

Finally, a thin line of opalescent light appeared on the forest floor. When it'd grown to about four feet in width, it split in two; one bar remained hovering just above the ground, while the other rose up. They remained connected at either end, forming a rectangle of light that hung in mid-air.

When the portal reached about six feet in height, it stopped growing, and the thin film of pearlescent power that had covered it slowly faded away to reveal the stone chamber beyond.

From outside, Dalca could barely make out the curving walls of the Way chamber. It was identical to the room he'd seen in the communication stone; that one had been a model of the real room, after all.

Standing inside the room was Vakhter, his squat form standing beside a long wooden crate. When the portal was open, Vakhter took hold of the handle at one end and began to drag the crate out behind him.

It was easily twice his height in length, but the deceptively small domovoi had no difficulty pulling it out into the real world.

"Vakhter, good to see you," Dalca said with a forced smile.

The domovoi grunted, and stopped pulling on the crate once it cleared the portal. His lightning blue eyes squinted up at the sun, and Dalca had to wonder when the creature had last seen daylight.

"Happy birthday, by the way," Dalca said. "Sorry I'm a little late. Been busy and all that."

Vakhter didn't even bother rolling his eyes. The domovoi simply turned and started back toward the glowing portal.

"Wait," Dalca said, retrieving a small bag from his pocket. "I've got something for Şobolan."

Vakhter turned back at that, and Dalca stepped forward to drop the bag into his hand. Broad fingers pried the bag open, and the scowl on the domovoi's face softened somewhat. It didn't fade completely, but with Vakhter, you settled for what you got. In all the years Dalca had known the creature, he couldn't recall him ever smiling.

"Crickets, dipped in yogurt," Dalca explained, gesturing toward the bag.

Vakhter looked up at him, and gave the barest of nods. Then he turned and walked back through the portal, which began to close as soon as he was through.

Dalca dragged the crate a little further, and waited until the light had completely faded away. Then he began the arduous task of scrubbing any last trace of the portal from the magical spectrum, just in case. A cascade of energy erupted from his outstretched hand, disrupting any lingering connection to the Way chamber.

Once he was sure there was no way of re-establishing the connection to his Keep, Dalca picked up the crate, and began the trek back to the vehicle.

* * *

A short time later, a knock sounded at the hotel door. Dalca rose from the chair to open it, and found the two wizards waiting in the hallway.

"Nice digs," Jonson said as he stepped inside. His eyes were wide as he looked around the expensive suite, which cost more than the young wizard could hope to afford. Perhaps after he'd lived a couple centuries, and accrued enough interest to establish himself financially, he might be able to stay in a place like that.

Wagner wasn't as impressed, and his suspicious eyes played over the room. "Where's your apprentice?"

"Getting ready," Dalca replied as he led the two in. Jean had napped during the drive, and had settled in for a bit more after they'd arrived in town. With a few hours under her belt, she'd awoken refreshed and ready to fight a powerful demi-god that had previously wiped the floor with Dalca and two White Council Wizards.

"What about this help you talked about?" Wagner asked. He looked better, and Dalca wondered if they'd only just removed the bandages. If they'd kept them on, then the magics in them would have gone a long way to healing their injuries. You could hardly tell his jaw had been broken less than two days ago.

Both wizards moved somewhat stiffly, but neither looked like they'd had a building collapse on them only a few hours prior.

"It's here," Dalca said, nodding toward the crate. As the two wizards stood back, Dalca unlatched it and opened the lid. Reaching inside, he took out the first of two objects, and tossed it to Wagner. The wizard caught it reflexively, and then stared at it in shock.

"This is…" Wagner said as he held the sheathed sword up. After a long moment, he pulled several inches of the blade from the leather scabbard. "This is my sword."

"Figured you might need it," Dalca said as he withdrew a second sword from the crate. Jonson's eyes were fixated on it as Dalca drew it from its sheath, and laid it across the crate's lid. "You ever wield a gladius before?" he asked Jonson.

"No," the young wizard replied.

"Any double-edged swords at all?" Dalca pressed.

Jonson just shook his head.

Dalca turned to Wagner, who was still fawning over his long lost blade. "What are you teaching them these days?"

The elder wizard finally glanced up and noted the gladius. "He's had some rapier training." When Dalca sighed, Wagner added. "And he wasn't very good. Which is why he doesn't have one."

"Probably shouldn't bother with this. The blade's going to be a bigger danger to him than anyone else," Dalca muttered as he cleared a space on the table for the blade. "Alright. I'm going to need some blood."

"Uh, what?" the younger wizard mumbled.

"What for?" Wagner asked, suddenly paying attention.

"Warden blades are made for the individual," Dalca explained, before amending, "or, _were_ , as the case may be."

"We still have—" Wagner began.

"If you're referring to that crap I snapped in half the other night, then just stop talking," Dalca said shortly. "That was no proper blade and you know it."

The old wizard didn't have the inclination to argue the point, so Dalca continued. "This was made for a wizard a long time ago," he explained to Jonson. "Having tasted your power, I can tell you and the previous owner had very similar strengths. You might even be distantly related."

"Is he still around to ask?" Wagner asked sharply.

"No, _she_ isn't," Dalca replied. "If you recall, I only take swords from those I kill." Dalca nodded at the sword Wagner had already slipped onto his belt. "Which is why you got that back."

Before the man could interrupt again, Dalca turned back to Jonson. "You'll never be a perfect match for it, but if you allow me to bond the sword to you, it will work better than anything else your forgers are turning out these days."

"I don't know," Jonson said, his tone guarded despite the eager look to his eyes.

"It's no trick," Dalca assured him. Turning toward the back, he shouted. "Sleepy head! Bring your sword!"

After a moment, Jean appeared with her sheathed sword in hand. She was almost ready for battle, but hadn't donned her hooded sweatshirt yet. That left her in a tight fitting top that Jonson's eager eyes swiveled to observe.

"Show them your blade," Dalca instructed her.

Jean drew her cavalry saber in a smooth motion, and held the blade up for their inspection. The metal glinted in the hotel suite's lighting, the pink hue clearly visible.

"That sword was the best suitable to her," Dalca explained. "I'll do the same to this one, and in time, you might just master the weapon."

"In time?" Jonson asked, his tone still suspicious.

"It'll take decades," Dalca warned him. "Centuries even, if you're as bad as Wagner says."

"You'll let him keep the blade?" Wagner asked doubtfully.

Dalca shrugged. "It seems like a suitable payment for services rendered."

Wagner's eyes narrowed. "We're not working for you—"

"Save it, Sunshine," Dalca said, waiving the old man off. Jean took the opportunity to put her own blade away and return to the bedroom to finish getting dressed. "We've got a deal to fight the demon together. I'm doing everything in my power to preserve my own life, which includes making sure those I fight with are as well-prepared as possible." Dalca gestured at the blades. "Neither of these are favorites of mine, and I'm willing to part with them in order to get this job done."

That seemed to have convinced Jonson, but Wagner still wasn't sold. Or maybe he was just offended that his blade wasn't considered good enough. "What are you getting out of this, then? As near as I can tell, the demon wasn't bothering you. And now you're willing to give up two enchanted swords — which, by all accounts, are what you take pride in collecting — for nothing in return?"

"Perhaps I'm righting past wrongs," Dalca said softly. "Perhaps I'm feeling charitable. Perhaps there's something else. But whatever it is, the two of you will benefit, _if_ you survive."

Wagner chewed through the words, looking for the trap. But with time not on his side, and a nearly unstoppable demon to face, the wizard couldn't deny the swords would be useful.

"Very well," he said gruffly. "But you won't taste the boy's blood again," he clarified, looking up as Jean returned.

Jonson must have told him about that. "That's fine," Dalca said agreeably. "Now lets stop wasting time, and get this over with."

The wizards shared a look, and Dalca waited for them to resolve themselves to it. While they prepared to draw the blood required for the spell, Dalca prepared himself.

The bonding ritual between blade and wielder was costly in power, but Dalca figured it was worth it. He'd recuperate the loss from Jean after everything was over. And the benefit of having another enchanted blade in the field outweighed the cost.

Besides, they'd all likely be dead within a few hours anyway.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

A short time later, the four of them joined Mara, who had kept watch at Kastel ter Meeren.

"They're still there," she informed them when they arrived. All four fell into a crouch behind the downed tree trunk she was perched upon. As they shuffled into position, Mara shot a scathing look at the Wardens and their swords. "Do they know how to use those?"

"Well enough," Dalca lied.

In truth, Wagner was fine. When they'd first crossed paths, the wizard hadn't been much of a swordsman. He'd improved over the years, most likely in an attempt to be ready to face the legendary 'Dubhlainn' should their paths ever cross. He was serviceable with a regular weapon, and his enchanted sword practically hummed once returned.

Jonson, on the other hand, had almost taken his own arm off when Dalca had tried giving him a few pointers.

"Sword fighting is kind of like sex," Mara explained to the young man as the others looked toward the mansion. "Well, human sex, that is."

"What?" Jonson sputtered as a blush began to creep up his neck.

"Who have you been watching have sex?" Jean asked the tiny fairy, her voice filled with concern.

"It's all stick-it-in, wiggle-it-about," Mara continued, waiving her arms in demonstration. Dalca wasn't quite sure exactly what she was supposed to be mimicking, but his best guess was a traffic cop trying to copulate with an orange cone. "And after all the spurting starts, you pull it out, and do it all over again with someone else."

"That's—" Jonson began.

"Only make sure they're finished first," Jean added helpfully. "You don't want them getting up after the fact to tell others how wretched you were."

"What—"

"And don't overdo it," Mara said with a groan. "No need to bury it to the hilt. You'll have a hard time pulling out in time—"

" _Enough_ ," Wagner growled.

"Any idea what we're looking at?" Dalca asked the water vâlvă.

"I've seen the daughter and several lycanthropes," Mara replied, the previous conversation already forgotten. "No sign of Herzog or Schröter, or the child."

"Okay," Dalca said, turning to the others. "My guess is that the demon will be in the chapel. Schröter said something before about it being where he could speak to his god; I just didn't realize he was being literal. Wagner and I will concentrate on that, while the rest of you back us up, taking care of any of the servitors."

"You expect us to take on Schröter and his daughter?" Jonson clarified. "Because my understanding is that _she_ pushed _you_ around before, and he's likely to be just as strong."

"We'll be fine," Jean said tiredly.

The young wizard looked to Jean in disbelief. "You're not worried about fighting in an enclosed space with juiced up lycanthropes?"

Jean frowned at him, and then swung a fist into the downed tree trunk.

The wood, freshly fallen and not yet given way to rot, splintered and broke beneath her knuckles.

When she pulled her hand away, the damage to the tree was apparent. The indentation from her fist was at least an inch deep into the wood, and a crack had appeared along the log's length. Jonson's eyes widened as he looked up at Jean, who simply brushed the remnants off her hand. "How did you…?"

"We visit the zoo a lot," Dalca explained helpfully. "But to correct you, no, I need to be the one to take Schröter. You all will get everyone else." Turning to Wagner, he gave the warden a nod. "You ready, Sunshine?"

The old wizard looked at Dalca for a moment with wild eyes, as if he still hadn't accepted that he was now fighting alongside the man he'd sworn to kill.

But the moment passed, and his training kicked in. "Let's go."

At that, the five slipped into the shadows of the forest, and began to circle around to approach the mansion.

As they closed in, Dalca kept an eye out for any sign of Schröter. Regardless of how many acolytes might have been present, he was the only person that mattered, save for Wagner and Dalca himself.

Jean was the first to come across a defender. Several Wolfshits — the nickname was catching — were on patrol outside the house. As the young wizard came out of the trees, a lycanthrope happened to round the corner.

Moving with the speed of a cheetah, Jean ran for the man. He must have heard something, despite her run being close to silent. Still, he turned, and saw her as she sprung to the air with inhuman agility.

Her pink-tinged sword swept through the air, cutting through his neck with ease, the heated blade making quick and quiet work of the defender.

Jean landed gracefully, before running silently toward the far corner, disappearing behind a flickering veil as she did.

"Oh, wow," Dalca heard Jonson say under his breath.

Something told Dalca that the young man was going to be smitten with his apprentice before the night was through.

"Focus," Wagner rumbled as they ran toward the closer corner of the manor house. It was the shorter wing, which also happened to contain the chapel. "Remember your training."

"Right," Jonson said, swallowing thickly as he tried to prepare himself for combat. Dalca just rolled his eyes, before shooting a lycanthrope in the head as she appeared.

The round was silent, preserving their stealthy attack. But Dalca wasn't counting on that lasting for long, if at all; the demon most likely knew they were coming.

As the three rounded the closer corner, Dalca saw the door to the chapel. It was the same one they'd used to exit the house on their first visit. If they made it in, he had no doubt they'd find Schröter there, if not the demon itself. He hoped to find the former first, but would make do if not.

He slowed as he came to the door, Wagner joining him as he did. Jonson ran on, with Mara perched on his shoulder. The two headed for the next corner, which would lead around to the front.

Before the young wizard could get there, another Wolfsherzen guard appeared, seeming to expect them. Jonson hesitated, trying to decide if he should use magic to take the man out, or try and draw the sword. One could be lethal, while the other could not; at least, not if he wanted to remain a warden.

His hesitation would have cost him his life, if Mara hadn't leapt into motion. Her small form blurred away, before re-appearing on the lycanthrope's shoulder.

Dalca turned to the chapel door and kicked in, before running inside. It wasn't that he was that eager to face the powerful demon; it was that he didn't want to get drenched in blood.

A popping noise confirmed that Mara had done her exploding veins trick. A second later, Dalca thought he could hear the sound of a vomiting wizard.

Glancing back, he saw that Wagner had followed him into the chapel. That narrowed down the possibilities of who was currently losing their dinner. "That's kind of pathetic," he observed.

"He's young," Wagner bit out, clearly irritated with the judgmental tone Dalca had taken.

"You're not doing him any favors coddling him," Dalca replied, before slipping into the main hall of the chapel.

Rather than replying, Wagner followed him in, and the two looked over the ornate and beautiful room that was surprisingly well lit. The door they'd used was toward the front, which meant they were only about six feet away from the altar, and the old man kneeling in front of it, when they burst in.

"Hey there, arschloch," Dalca said as he brought his gun up, taking aim on the old and withered form of Jöhan Becker.

The man looked up at their arrival, his eyes soft and as pleasant as his smile. "Hello again. Can I help you with something?"

In response, Dalca fired.

He might have had just a bare second of doubt at the other man's response to their sudden appearance. But that doubt was cast aside when the bullet struck the old man's shoulder. He rocked backward at the impact, almost using the momentum from the bullet to stumble up to his feet. The man hit the altar behind him before spinning around behind it, putting some distance between them.

Becker's hand rose to his shoulder quickly, to cradle the wound. But not before Dalca saw golden blood run freely.

"Ugh," Becker grunted, looking down at the wound for a moment. Then his eyes rose as he looked to Dalca, who began circling around. "You shot me."

Dalca kept moving, putting some distance between himself and Wagner. No point in the two standing too close, making an easy target. "Are you really surprised?"

Becker's slips softened into another smile. "Not particularly."

And with an almost lazy motion, Becker flung his hand around in an arc, golden drips of blood flicking out through the air. Dalca didn't give it a second thought, until he saw the first drops suddenly shoot forward, flying at Wagner at deadly speeds.

The wizard got his shield up in time, but it did him little good. He grunted in surprise as the bronze blood pierced his empowered shield, almost as if it hadn't existed, before thudding into his chest and arms.

The impacts drove him backward, and the wizard stumbled over a pew before falling to the church floor.

Recognizing the danger just before it struck, Dalca dove, the wet golden bullets flying past overhead as he hit the ground. He turned it into a roll, and came up on his feet on the far side of the caretaker.

"Impressive," Dalca said, not taking his eyes off the old man. "Last time I saw you, you had less magical power than a pile of troll dung."

Becker's eyes narrowed at that, his friendly countenance fading. "You are as insufferable as ever, Standartenführer Fürst."

And just like that, the kind man Dalca and Jean had met faded. The hair on Becker's head wafted away, slipping from his scalp like dandelion seeds in a stiff wind. His wrinkles, so warm and joyful, faded back into a younger, familiar face more accustomed to glowering. The aged stoop disappeared, as Hauptsturmführer Jürgen Schröter stood before Dalca's eyes.

"That's a face I thought I'd never see again," Dalca said.

"As is yours," Schröter snapped, any softness fading with the false persona. Schröter glowered at him, his eyes narrow and beady. "If you think you can claim its power for yourself, you're mistaken."

"Why does everyone think I want to get tangled up with that thing?" Dalca asked, genuinely perplexed.

"Because it is a God," Schröter replied, clearly having bought into the demon's lies.

"You have no idea what it is," Dalca stated scornfully while retraining his gun on the man. "You're a pathetic excuse of a summoner that used the work of others to call up a has-been demon."

Schröter grew furious at that, but he didn't move. He just let out an odd shout, one that seemed to reverberate through the small chapel as it pulsed outward.

Caught flat-footed, Dalca was hit with the unseen wall of power that accompanied the sound. He managed to get a shot off as he flew backwards, crashing through a stone column to the left of the room before bouncing off the wall. The force of it wasn't quite equal with Wagner's basement-destroying strikes, but it was close.

And worse, it seemed to have a mind of its own. After Dalca hit the wall, the force ricocheted off the pained glass, shattering the windows as it slung Dalca back across the room. It was as if someone — or something — were playing a giant game of pinball. And Dalca got to be the ball.

Pews were strewn about as the force thrashed through the small room. Dalca struck another support column, and managed to sink red-black claws into the stone as he slid by. His grip held, allowing him to pivot around the column. But a swirling wooden bench came around the side, striking with unbelievable force in the midst of hurricane winds.

Dalca was thrown again, and ended up crashing into the wall. When he looked up, it was to see another bench hurtling toward him. He dove to one side, leaving the massive oaken seat to shatter against the stone wall. The impact left an impression in the quarried stone.

An angry shout put an end to the storm of power, as Wagner finally decided to join in the fight. " _Chunli!_ "

The shrapnel flying around the room suddenly dropped, ceasing its swirling dance as the summoner was hit with a powerful blast from the wizard. Dalca rose and moved from beneath the arched hall to one side of the room, and back into the open area of the small chapel. As he did, he spotted Wagner, who was just pulling himself up on a column.

Schröter, to Dalca's surprise, was still standing. And unlike himself, the summoner hadn't been tossed through a wall by that spell; Wagner's blast must have been weakened, as Dalca couldn't imagine that Schröter was more powerful than he himself was.

The blast had sent the summoner into the stone altar, which had cracked under the assault from the wizard. But Schröter wasn't showing any signs of injury, as he thrust his hand toward Wagner.

Another torrent of unseen energy lashed out, which the wizard narrowly avoided as he dove to one side. It slammed into the column where he'd been leaning, shattering the stonework before continuing on toward the wall, which buckled under the blow.

For his part, Wagner got tangled in the wreckage of the pews. He was still trying to stand as Schröter shifted his focus, training his palm on the wizard again.

" _Kálo Falo_ ," Dalca gasped, winded from his whirlwind trip around the room. Since he wasn't quite ready for the wizard to die, Dalca summoned up his black shield, placing it between the two men. The next blast of energy glanced off the dark wall, which cracked under the force of the blow. But despite the impressive power available to the summoner, the shield held.

The blast, deflected by his spell, shot across to the other side of the room, where it shattered another two columns. Dalca shot a concerned glance up at the ceiling, but it remained in place for the moment.

Turning his attention back to the summoner, Dalca stumbled out from beneath the side alcove, his hand thrusting forward. " _Kálo Villámo_."

Black lightning rimmed in ultrascarlet shot out of his palm, lancing across the room in a zigzagging pattern. The unraveling spell struck Schröter in his outstretched arm, which disappeared into a bloody cloud as it was destroyed.

Schröter screamed, more in anger than pain, as he looked down at the stump of his right arm. The spell had destroyed everything from his bicep down. Dark golden blood spurted from his veins as he stared in shock at the wound.

Dalca stumbled forward, ready to unleash another blast. He cringed as he took a step, the movement jostling a rib that felt like it might be broken. It was enough to cause him to hiss in pain, and his attack was delayed.

Dark laughter drew his attention from his side and back toward the front of the room. When he looked to Schröter again, it was to see the man leering at him. "You cannot harm me; not in the presence of my God."

Dalca's gaze shifted to the man's arm, where the profuse bleeding had stopped. Only, it hadn't. It took Dalca a moment to understand what he was seeing. When he did, it chilled him to his core.

The blood-flow hadn't been halted, so much as it had been directed. The bronze-infused fluid was almost copper in color as it dribbled out from the man's exposed vein. But instead of dripping to the floor, it was slowly flowing down into the shape of a skeletal arm.

There were no muscles upon it, nor was there any skin. The metallic blood hardened into brazen bones, while more stretched thinly into tendons and cartilage that allowed it to move. The temperature in the room dropped as the magical construct drew heat from the air to fuel the metal's movement.

In just a matter of moments, Schröter's arm had been replaced with a skeletal limb of tarnished gold.

"Now you understand my God's greatness," Schröter spat as he lifted the brazen arm. "Now you will see what I have become!"

The summoner prepared another blast, one that Dalca wasn't entirely sure he'd be able to dodge. Not with his chest cavity throbbing in pain. As Schröter began to unleash another force spell, he started to move to one side. But another surge of power took the summoner out, Wagner's blast of kinetic energy striking Schröter in the waist and sending him toppling backward.

The summoner's attack shot up and overhead, raking at the wall and arched ceiling. Dalca finished his dive as rubble rained down from above. Bouncing off the devastated pews in a way his broken rib loved, Dalca slid away, somehow managing to avoid getting brained by falling stone.

Surging to his feet while gasping for breath, Dalca looked to the front, where he caught sight of Wagner as he disappeared behind his shimmering shield wall. Schröter's next attack struck it a second later, the assault crashing into it, before pummeling both wizard and wall.

" _Kálo Kardo!_ " Dalca screamed as he drew his sword. The black blade thrummed with power, an ultrascarlet nimbus enshrouding it as he channeled the unraveling spell into the metal. Grimacing at the pain that stabbed through him, Dalca leapt, his enhanced strength and speed helping him close on the summoner, who was still facing the downed wizard.

Schröter was just beginning to turn as Dalca arrived, his dark sword sweeping down to cleave the brazen arm off. The unraveling spell cut through the thin metal, although not as easily as it should have.

The summoner screamed again, feeling more pain at the loss of his false limb than he had at the departure of the one he'd been born with. But Dalca didn't stop to enjoy the sound of the man's agony; he simply dropped his sword, releasing the spell on it as he did, and seized Schröter so that he could slam him into the cracked altar.

The man looked up at Dalca in alarm and fury, enraged that his god's gift had been taken from him. Dalca had no doubt he was preparing another attack. He could almost feel the odd power working through the man. It wasn't a mortal sort of power, so the thorned manacle Dalca had in his pocket wouldn't do much against it.

Besides, Dalca didn't want to cut the man off from the power. He wanted the power itself.

Schröter's eyes went wide as Dalca's teeth appeared. He tried summoning up another blast, but his concentration broke as Dalca's head shot down to his neck, savagely tearing into the man.

As the summoner screamed, Dalca drank down the brazen blood pumping through his veins. The taste was something horrible, and almost made Dalca wretch. But he knew that he couldn't afford to do that; not yet.

Instead, Dalca drank all of it, draining the man of every last bit of his blood. And with it, his power.

The liquid sat heavy in his gut, heavier than it should have been. Heat blossomed in his stomach, burning away the sanguine fluid almost as quickly as he drank it. With the blood destroyed, only the power would remain.

Except, there was more to Schröter's blood than normal. Despite the fire in his gut incinerating most of what he drank, the bronze in the fluid remained. It sat heavy in his stomach, sloshing wetly as he absorbed Schröter's power.

Dalca's nausea grew, until it finally became too much for him. He tore his teeth away from Schröter's neck, releasing the man as he stumbled away. Then there was no stopping the surge of bile as it tore its way up his throat, splashing golden upon the stone floor as he ejected the metal from his body.

If the flavor going down had been bad, coming back up was much worse. Dalca kept his internal temperatures boiling, making sure the metal remained liquefied. Cursing and spitting, he remained bent over until the last of it was gone.

When it was over, Dalca licked at his sleeve, trying to rid himself of the flavor. As he did, he looked around, spying Wagner a short distance away, looking on in revulsion.

"You…" the wizard started, sounding disgusted.

"I had to," Dalca spat, his voice as bitter as the taste in his mouth.

Wagner didn't seem inclined to believe him, and looked ready to fight as he rose. "I may not have cared for the man, but letting you devour him was never my intention."

As he spoke, Wagner started drawing in power. Dalca could feel it event at a distance.

"You don't understand," Dalca said, looking down at the dead summoner. "I _had_ to."

"Just like you _had_ to drink from me that night," Wagner hissed, his simmering rage beginning to boil over.

"No, that was for fun," Dalca admitted freely. As he did, he focused the heat still within his body toward the rib that had broken. He winced as his muscles tightened around it, shifting it back into position. When it was in the right place, he poured power into the fracture. He grunted in pain as the break was crudely fused back together. It wasn't a permanent solution, but it would do for the moment. "This is all business."

Wagner didn't look convinced. "Enough of your lies, monster. I—"

The wizard didn't have time to blink. One second there was a good three meters between them; the next, Dalca was slamming Wagner into the wall, a clawed hand at his throat as the other slipped a manacle onto one wrist.

"Yes, I'm a monster," Dalca hissed around his sharp teeth. Wagner gasped in pain as the manacle sapped the power he'd been drawing in, but he managed to meet the serpentine eyes that glared at him. "And if you think I'm ashamed of that, you're a fool."

Wagner gagged as the clawed hand tightened around his throat. Dalca could still feel him drawing in power, despite the manacle. One wouldn't be enough to suppress all of his ability.

"There is nothing I'd like to do more than rip your throat out and devour the blood that spilled from your veins," Dalca growled, his breath hot on the wizard's neck. "I would finish what I started so long ago, making sure that there was nothing left this time."

Just as suddenly as he'd struck, Dalca moved away from the wizard, putting distance between the two. Wagner gasped as his breath was restored, and he slipped to the floor. His eyes were wide and wild as he looked to Dalca, who stood calmly a dozen feet away.

"But I won't," Dalca said softly. "Mostly because I can't. But also because I need you." He nodded at Schröter's body. "Just like I needed his power."

Even though Wagner was on edge, he refrained from an immediate retaliation. The wizard glanced toward the fallen summoner, and then back to Dalca. "What are you talking about?"

Dalca rolled his eyes. "Are you a moron? Haven't you put it together yet?"

Wagner frowned, clearly not appreciating the insult. But he clearly hadn't.

"This thing was born of our power," Dalca explained in disgust. "In mine. In yours. In his," he finished, nodding at Schröter. "As such, only our power can destroy it."

Wagner's head cocked to one side as he considered Dalca's words. "That's why you spared me back in the sanitorium," Wagner realized. "Not because you've gone soft; because you need me."

Dalca let loose with a barking laugh. "Soft? Wizard, I would gut you and your apprentice in a heartbeat if there weren't more important matters to attend to." Dalca's gaze slid down to the wizard's. "Did you not recognize the power Schröter was slinging around?"

The wizard frowned again, while remaining seated on the floor. "It was kinetic force. Powerful."

"Yes," Dalca said with a nod. "Just like yours."

Wagner blinked in surprise. "What do you mean?"

Dalca shook his head in disgust. "Your power was used to bring this thing forth; your strength is kinetic energy. My power was used to fuel the fires; this thing uses heat magic to fuel its movement, to make the metals malleable."

"You're saying its literally using our power against us?" Wagner asked in confusion.

"Not our power specifically. It's not drawing on our reserves or anything," Dalca corrected him. "But it's a product of our power. And as such, we're vulnerable to it."

A knowing look flitted across Wagner's face. "So that's why you're doing this. You're afraid this thing can hurt you."

"It can," Dalca admitted. "As can its acolytes. In ways I hadn't even realized." No need to tell Wagner the rest of why he was there. "But just as we're vulnerable to our own power, so too is it."

"And you just absorbed a third of the power that created it," Wagner concluded.

"Exactly."

If Dalca was right, then the middling latent talent of Schröter was necessary to destroy the demon. There wasn't much, just as there hadn't been so many years ago. Dalca had to make sure to hold that power in reserve; he could burn through it all too quickly. If he did so before the demon was destroyed, there might not be any stopping it.

"So we have to work together," Wagner finally said, understanding the situation once it'd been spelled out for him.

"Yes," Dalca said with a nod.

"Alright," Wagner said. His rage, his burning desire to see Dalca dead, finally subsided. For the moment. "But where is—"

A loud crashing noise interrupted his words, as the far wall of the chapel exploded inward.

"—it," Wagner finished, while looking at the two bodies that had tumbled through the new hole in the wall.

Dalca blinked in surprise as well, as a lithe form stood over the other. The woman still on her feet stood just over five feet tall, her skin a mottled navy. She was nude, revealing an attractive feminine humanoid form, save for the gliding wings on her back and the long barbed tail flicking behind her.

Her inhuman face looked up toward Dalca and Wagner, her solid black eyes widening as she realized she'd stumbled upon them.

"Mara," Dalca said, his tone somewhat disapproving.

The tall water vâlvă looked down at the woman she stood over, who was just coming to. Her two illicium bobbed atop her head as her gaze returned to them. "Sorry, my lord."

"I don't recall giving you permission to use all of your power," Dalca said, crossing his arms in front of him and frowning at the quite-obviously-too-tall fairy.

"You said to keep the human apprentices alive," Mara replied, her melodic voice richer in her large form. A thin dark eyebrow arched up. "This one was too much for them. And my restrained power could not compensate for her infused blood."

That was a generous interpretation of his orders. Dalca's eyes shifted down, to observe the blond head of Jöhanna Becker. The woman was just beginning to stir. Mara's tail swished around, slashing at the woman's neck. The barb on the end sliced through it with ease, before stabbing back down. A disturbing _thunk_ sounded as it sank into the stub of the woman's neck.

When Mara's tail rose again, Jöhanna's head sat atop the barb, its brazen blood dripping gore across Mara's tail. Her eyes were still wide from the shock of her death. "It was necessary."

"Mmm-hmm," Dalca mumbled. He wondered if that were the case. Mara couldn't technically lie, but she'd learned how to stretch the truth so far that it no longer resembled anything honest.

But it'd taken both him and the wizard to finish off Schröter. The man's own power had been minuscule, but the power of the demon's blood had been significant. While Dalca was fairly confident he could have defeated the man on his own, it wouldn't have been easy.

Of course, Mara had defeated his daughter single-handedly.

"Alright," Dalca finally said, conceding the point. "Where are—"

His question was answered as the two apprentices appeared at the doorway in the back corner of the chapel. Jean's eyes were wide as she took in the wreckage, while Jonson's blushing gaze was on the nude fairy. Both looked unscathed.

"I take it you got all of them?" Dalca asked, changing his question.

"Everyone present," Mara confirmed with a nod. "Although Herzog is not here."

"Hmm," Dalca said thoughtfully, frowning. "Alright. You stay up here, just in case he and any others show up. Wagner and I will go down and finish things."

Jean looked ready to protest, but Mara's tail swooshed, flicking Jöhanna's head in her general direction. The girl blanched as she watched the blond ponytail flip past her, and her protest went unsaid. "Very well, my lord," Mara said for the others.

"Put some clothes on," Dalca ordered her as he turned to Wagner. "The boy's eyes are about to pop out of his head."

He caught the startled glance on Jonson's face, along with the disgusted look on Jean's as she scoffed at the obviously perverted boy.

Dalca found Wagner looking between him and Mara in confusion. Whatever he wanted to ask, he instead focused on the mission. He watched as Dalca undid the manacle from his wrist, which hadn't even been locked. "Head down?" he asked, rubbing at his flesh where the steel thorns had bit at him.

"Down," Dalca confirmed with a nod, before gesturing toward the altar. "If you'd be so kind."

Wagner looked confused, but stumbled over to the stone altar while Dalca retrieved his sword. Finding the discarded Luger amidst the rubble was harder, but he located it by the time the wizard had caught on to what Dalca had seen beneath the cracked stone base. When Dalca eventually returned to the front of the small chapel, weapons in place, Wagner had just finished shattering the altar with a powerful force spell.

Revealed beneath it was a stone stairwell leading down.

"Master Wagner?" Jonson called, clearly unnerved by the sight of Mara undressing the dead Jöhanna to don her clothes.

"Stay here, boy," the wizard grumbled. He cast a glance at Dalca. "Let's go."

Wagner started down the stairwell, taking the lead. Dalca snapped a sarcastic stiff-armed salute, before starting after the man.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

If Dalca had to hazard a guess, the temple beneath the chapel hadn't always been there.

The stone steps beneath the altar led down, their path a wide circle that seemed to move beyond the confines of the chapel overhead. It was also deeper than Dalca would have suspected, as they went at least thirty meters down, consisting of one hundred and sixty-eight steps, before they arrived at the small landing outside of the subterranean temple.

The wizard had activated his bobbing illumination sphere as they'd descended, lighting their way in the dark stairwell. But when they reached the bottom, there was no need for it. Orange-red light shone from flickering torches on the walls. The wizard dismissed his own spell as he stepped into the room, his returned warden sword already drawn and ready for whatever awaited them.

Dalca stepped in behind him, and looked over the large circular room. It was a good thirty meters wide, with stone support columns keeping the high ceiling at bay. The placement of the columns was regular, thirteen to each ring, with two rings around the room about five meters apart. The center of the chamber was clear of them, leaving an open space about ten meters in diameter.

Torches lined the walls, while smaller sconces sat near the tops of some of the columns. It left the room hued in the same orange-red light as the landing. There were shadows here and there, although they were few and far between.

As Dalca continued on, he realized that the floor was inclined toward the center. It formed a very shallow bowl leading down to the open space, where it leveled off. The flat section was actually a smooth metallic surface, a glimmering disk of bronze in the midst of all the stone.

Further back, in a space between the far arches, stood a stone throne. To one side of it was an altar, atop which rested a little black book. Dalca's gaze settled on the journal, guessing that it was Schröter's old notebook.

Noting its presence, Dalca's eyes returned to the throne, atop which sat a brazen young boy.

" **Hello fathers** ," the demon said from within the slight form. Three obsidian eyes stared at them from across the way, unblinking, unyielding. " **Have you come to worship me?** "

"Fathers?" Wagner asked, surprised. His eyes didn't travel from the bronze figure.

"Congratulations!" Dalca said with a smile. "It's a boy!" He glanced to the wizard. "I forgot to pick up cigars."

The wizard spared a moment to shoot a dark scowl at Dalca.

" **You must worship me, fathers** ," the demon continued. His voice echoed across the room, seeming more like a physical object than just sound waves bouncing off the walls.

"Sorry, there's not going to be any more worshiping," Dalca replied as he worked his way to one side of the open chamber. Wagner split off to the other side. "All of your acolytes are dead."

The demon child's head tilted to one side as he turned to watch Dalca. " **Not all. There are more, lord father.** "

"We'll get to those shortly," Dalca assured the thing.

" **You must worship me** ," the demon replied, looking toward Wagner. " **Worship me, blood father**."

"I am not your father," Wagner spat, clearly disgusted at the implied association. "And you are nothing worth worshiping."

" **You wound me, blood father** ," the demon said. It didn't speak with any inflection; its speech was as dull and smooth as its flesh.

"Not yet!" Dalca said quickly, before turning to Wagner. "Beat you to it."

The wizard frowned at him.

"What? You've gotta hit your queues," Dalca insisted. "Especially when they give you lines like that."

"I'll defer to your judgment," Wagner said. "You're more experienced with dealing with repugnant monsters."

"Touché," Dalca replied.

" **You must worship me, fathers** ," the demon continued. The bronze head of the sacrificial boy turned back and forth. " **You must fear me. Why do you not fear me?** "

"Fear a little pip-squeak like you?" Dalca scoffed. "That'll be the day."

Despite his words, Dalca was very much inclined to fear this thing. He could feel its power from across the room. Inhuman and incredible. Dalca had faced few things with as much power; one rarely did when one wanted to survive.

If he hadn't been clued in to the fact that it would be vulnerable to his power, Dalca might have stayed away. But Wagner was right about one thing. Dalca had no desire to leave this demon to its devices. Not when it could empower others with its brazen blood, giving mere mortals the ability to harm the likes of him.

" **You must worship me** ," the demon said. " **Or you must die**."

"You'd kill your own fathers?" Dalca asked as he drew his black blade. As he did, he started drawing in his power, lacing it with a small amount of Schröter's. "That's generally frowned upon. I should know."

The demon's three eyes settled on the sword. So far it hadn't moved, other than to turn its head to watch the two of them. " **If you were truly my fathers, you would worship me. If you do** ** _not_** **, then you are not my fathers.** "

"Sound logic," Dalca said with a shrug. "I wasn't a fan of the idea, anyway. People might think Sunshine and I were together or something."

"Enough," the wizard hissed. "We end this now."

"Couldn't agree more," Dalca replied.

The demon child looked between them, waiting. It was as if the thing were loath to attack them, as if it truly thought they might come around and start worshiping it.

Instead, Dalca thrust his free hand at the demon, unleashing a bolt of black lightning. Infused with his power and Schröter's, it should be enough to hurt the demon.

Wagner mirrored his effort, shouting sharply as he sent a tight burst of his own power at the thing.

A second before the two attacks struck, the boy disappeared.

The throne was destroyed as the forces converged, shattering under the onslaught. Dalca didn't stop to watch; his head was on a swivel, looking for the boy.

He located him standing not far away. Before Dalca could bring his arm around, a power lashed out at him, hitting hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.

Dalca flew back, striking one column before ricocheting off to hit another. The rib he'd repaired broke a second time, and when Dalca finally hit the curving wall of the chamber, he slid to the floor, gasping in pain. His sword lay somewhere between the two rows of columns, coming to a stop against one.

As he felt at his chest, Dalca heard a slight popping noise, accompanied by the flapping sound of the flames overhead. " **You must worship me, father** ," the demon said from three feet away. Dalca froze, unable to comprehend how quickly the boy moved. " **You must**."

Dalca looked up into the three eyes of the demon, only to see them disappear along with the rest of him. A second later, one of Wagner's kinetic blasts slammed into the wall overhead, making the stone crack and crumble.

"Watch it!" Dalca groaned as he tried rolling to his feet. With his rib broken, it was harder than he'd care to admit. He looked towards Wagner in time to see the man get flung through the air.

Not waiting to see where he landed, Dalca surged to his feet, blocking the pain as best he could to charge at the demon. He moved toward it while channeling the two powers into his stiletto blade. Slinging it with incredible speed, it flew at the demon, the blade nothing more than a whirl of black.

Once again the boy disappeared before the strike could land. But Dalca hadn't been counting on it being successful.

He'd instead attuned his senses elsewhere, listening to the chamber.

There'd been a slight popping sensation as the demon had disappeared from the throne; the same had occurred when he'd appeared above Dalca. At first, he'd thought the creature was moving so quickly that its body was displacing the air in sudden bursts.

But when he'd appeared beside Dalca, the torches on the wall hadn't flickered at his passage; they'd flickered _toward_ the demon, from every direction, as if drawn in towards its presence.

It wasn't that the demon was moving at high speed; nothing could move so fast that Dalca couldn't get a sense of its movement. Rather, the boy was transporting himself from point to point.

Dalca had seen the effects of such transport previously, but hadn't realized what it was at the time. Both seventy years prior on the street, and again in the parking lot outside the police warehouse, the spell had caused the lights spark and flicker when the demon had moved.

He'd seen such a thing before, a long tome ago. A creature Dalca had met possessed the ability to create pocket demesnes in the Never-never. As the demesne was formed, it'd link two points in reality. The creature would enter the demesne, and then return out the other point. It wasn't _really_ teleportation, but it was the next best thing.

It wasn't a skill Dalca had. And he doubted it was a hidden talent of Wagner's. Perhaps it was an ability inherent to the demon; perhaps Schröter had possessed some latent talent after all.

For the moment, it didn't matter. All that mattered was that when the brazen boy disappeared, Dalca trained his ears on the sound of the flickering flames. Those around its previous location swooshed inward, as did those behind Dalca to the left.

Dalca leapt forward as he spun, his arm thrusting in the direction of the popping flames. As he did, he unleashed another bolt of black lightning, the edges rimmed in ultrascarlet light.

The boy sensed the danger, and tried teleporting away again. But magic isn't magic; it's physics on a scale greater than any scientist could guess at. It took power and concentration to do spells, and what the demon was doing was nothing more than a spell.

Since he hadn't completed the first relocation, the demon wasn't ready for a second. The black lightning struck him, sending the demon's small form flying back.

Knowing he didn't have much time, Dalca tried to turn his leap into a roll. But halfway through the motion, the broken rib stabbed at him, and he lost control. His coordinated movement became a lopsided tumble, and he grabbed at his side as he came to a rest against a column.

"Fucking columns," Dalca gasped. "I never want to see another column for as long as I live."

Since the demon child hadn't appeared yet, Dalca took the time to draw in power, hoping to fuse the rib back into place. But as he began, another pulse of power struck the column he lay beside, causing it to explode. The smaller pieces flew outward, while the larger ones just fell on Dalca, one of which struck his head.

"Ow," he groaned, rubbing at his scalp. He could feel the scaly flesh there, where his skin had shifted into its sturdier form. But while it'd prevented him from being cut open, it hadn't stopped the weight of the stone from pounding into his skull. His brain seemed to throb from the impact, and a nauseous feeling washed over him again.

More explosions sounded across the room, and Dalca's mind eventually cleared enough to realize that Wagner must have been pressing an attack against the demon. He took the moment to finish repairing his rib, although it felt like it wasn't quite as stable as it had been before.

When he could, he rose, looking for the others.

An explosion of rock across the room clued him in. He started in that direction, but stopped when he saw a figure fly back through the air. He watched as Wagner tumbled through the open space and past the first row of columns, before slamming into one in the second row. The wizard collapsed like a limp doll, lying unmoving on the floor.

" **You have betrayed me, fathers** ," the demon called as Dalca worked his way toward the fallen wizard. " **You have betrayed your child**."

Dalca caught a glimpse of the demon as he moved amidst the pillars, keeping his distance. He could see where his strike had landed earlier, a web of blackened cracks in the bronze flesh along the boy's left side. The figure was limping, possibly due to that attack, or possibly due to one of Wagner's. Either way, they'd at least hurt the thing.

" **Such acts are unforgivable, fathers** ," the demon continued, as he stumbled stiffly around the inner ring.

Ignoring the demon, Dalca continued on toward Wagner. The wizard was down, and still hadn't moved. As Dalca arrived, he sighed in relief, hearing the sound of the man's pulse.

Reaching for him, Dalca turned the wizard over, and was surprised to see that the man was still conscious. His face was twisted in apparent agony, but he was awake. His bright hazel eyes looked up to Dalca, flinching reflexively at the appearance of the man he hated.

"Get up," Dalca hissed, looking around for the demon. But it seemed they had a moment.

"I can't," Wagner wheezed. "My back."

Dalca looked down at him, realizing that the man still wasn't moving. Nor would he be. "Shit."

Wagner twitched his head, which was about the best he could do. "I… I can't…" The man's eyes teared up.

"You have to. You _have_ to," Dalca hissed, looking around for the demon. He was glad the boy was giving them time, but was worried about what the thing might be doing. "You have to use your power to stop it."

"I… I can't…" Wagner replied, his eyes fluttering.

Dalca cursed again, before grabbing the wizard up into his arms. Doing so tweaked his rib, and he only managed to stumble toward the gaping doorway leading to the stairs.

He managed to get them into the small landing at the bottom, but collapsed as he looked up the winding path. He couldn't carry Wagner out; not like this. Perhaps he could call Mara down, to have her heal the man. He hadn't wanted her anywhere near this creature; not when it'd proven itself so powerful. But they were short on options.

Dalca looked up, and then he looked back into the chamber. "Your power has to be wielded against the demon," he said.

"I can't," Wagner gasped. "There's no way…"

"I said your _power_." Dalca turned back to him. "I didn't say you had to be the one using it."

Wagner's eyes widened as he realized what Dalca was suggesting. He would have moved if he could, but he was helpless. "No. No, not again…"

"I have to," Dalca hissed. "We won't have another shot at this."

Wagner stared at him in horror. Dalca almost felt sorry for him. His worst nightmare, alive and breathing, was now staring down at him while he was helpless. Telling him that he must feed on him again, taking his power as he had so long ago. Dalca couldn't imagine what the wizard must have felt in that moment.

But he didn't have time for such sentiments. Not that he ever had, or ever would.

"Give me permission," Dalca hissed. "Give me your power."

Wagner blinked uncomprehendingly. "What?"

"Let me have your power," Dalca insisted. "Give me permission."

"W-Why?" the wizard stuttered.

"Because I can't take a mortal's power without a mortal's permission," Dalca growled, hating the need to explain.

Wagner's eyes flitted back and forth between Dalca's. "I didn't give you… permission last… time…"

" _You_ didn't," Dalca confirmed. "But Schröter did. The mortal I was working for at the time gave me permission to feed on other mortals. But I don't have permission now."

The wizard's face twisted up into confusion. "You… lie." Dalca started to argue, but Wagner continued. "You drank… Schröter's power…"

"I had permission to drink his," Dalca spat. "Not yours."

"Who…" Wagner began, before his eyes swam.

"No. _No_ ," Dalca said sternly, shaking the man and slapping his face. "Stay conscious. Give me permission."

When Wagner's eyes refocused, Dalca stared into them. "You have to. It's the only way."

The wizard stared back, struggling to understand. Perhaps he was wondering what gods he'd pissed off to be left to such a fate. To be incapable of not only enacting his revenge, but unable to stop a greater evil without willingly giving his power to the thing he despised most in the world. To submit himself a second time to the creature that had nearly killed him.

It was a long moment. Much too long for Dalca's taste. Their time had to be running short, all while this mortal clung to his pitiful life. Why couldn't he understand? Why cling to such a wretched existence? Especially now that he was left helpless, and would die anyways once the demon finished recovering.

Perhaps it was that thought that finally decided it. Perhaps Wagner realized that he was going to die one way or the other, and that he might as well give his death some purpose. Or perhaps he just finally gave up.

It didn't matter to Dalca. All that mattered was the wizard's words.

"Fine," Wagner said, closing his eyes. "I… give you permission."

Dalca's fingers grew into claws in an instant, and a moment later, one of them pierced the flesh of Wagner's arm. The man didn't even flinch, the loss of feeling sparing him from the pain. Dalca pulled the limb up, holding it to his lips, as he let the wizard's potent blood spill into his throat.

Dalca sighed contentedly as he drank the man's power. So much power.

It was true that Dalca could drink from any mortal, once permission was granted by another. That was the unforeseen loophole in the curse binding him, preventing him from gaining power like his species normally did.

Once Dalca had realized that, he'd done what he had to, in order to sustain his life, much less gain any strength. He'd become nothing more than a hired hand, a minion to complete tasks for mortals and wizards, all for their permission to take power from their enemies. Centuries of an immortal life, wasted on feeding from the dregs of the mortal world. Surviving on the pitiful sustenance offered by the likes of Schröter.

But every so often, Dalca managed to feed from a wizard.

And that is a worthy meal indeed.

The familiar taste of Wagner's power coursed into Dalca, a warm and bright feeling to it. It'd been the flavor the wizard's power that had led Dalca dubbing him with his nickname, rather than his hair or disposition. Everyone's power was unique, and Wagner's had been young and energetic and bright so very long ago.

Now, after all those years, it was different. Still powerful, and still bright. But there was experience there, a life lived and a gift nurtured. The man had seen much in his years; Dalca didn't know or see the details, but he could feel it in his power. The strength of a wizard was tied to who they were, and what they'd done.

Sunshine had spent his life growing stronger, and Dalca relished in taking that power for himself.

As he drank, his body began to glow from the heat within. The wizard's blood boiled and evaporated within his gut, releasing the power into Dalca's body. It was rich and hearty, and he could feel it augmenting his own power as he absorbed it.

Within moments, Dalca's flesh was shining with an inner light. The heat allowed him to shift the broken rib bone back into place and fuse it, the extensive power at his disposal doing a better job than his hasty work earlier. So much power within the wizard, now within him.

Wagner's flesh sizzled beneath Dalca's grip as the heat grew. The wizard's eyes had fluttered closed as he'd faded. But even if he'd still been there, he wouldn't have felt the pain from Dalca's touch.

Filled with the wizard's power, Dalca stood, his body thrumming with energy.

He left the wizard's body behind, and strode back into the temple, his eyes burning as hot as his flesh.

As he went, he began to circle the room. Finding his stiletto, he retrieved it, sliding it into its holster beside the Luger. He continued on, looking toward the center of the room as he paced, the room bright beneath his gaze.

The slight form of the demon child stared back from where it stood on the bronze disk on the floor. It shifted around, mirroring Dalca's pace as it kept its distance. " **What have you done, lord father?** " it asked.

"What I had to," Dalca replied, his voice low and guttural. Feeding off of a being such as the wizard always left him drunk with power.

" **I am running out of fathers** ," the demon observed.

"Don't worry," Dalca assured it with a cruel smile. "One will survive."

The bronze head tilted as it paced around the disk. " **That seems unlikely, lord father**."

"We'll see," Dalca replied, slowing as he reached the stone altar that had crumbled along with the throne. He reached down amidst the rubble, retrieving the black book that had sat atop it.

" **That is not yours, lord father** ," the demon said darkly, its tone growing passionate for the first time.

"Good father won't be needing it," Dalca said with a certain degree of confidence. "Neither will you, for that matter. You already know your name." Dalca slipped it into a pocket before resuming his walk.

" **Others must learn it, now that you have taken good father from me** ," the demon said, the amber light around each of the three dark eyes shining brightly.

"I think I'd better hold on to it for now," Dalca said, making his way toward where his sword had fallen. He picked up Wagner's along the way.

" **Why not read it, lord father?** " the demon asked. " **Learn my name. Gain from my power.** "

"That'd kind of defeat the purpose of this endeavor," Dalca replied with a sinister grin.

" **Ahhhh** **…** " the demon said, its voice rumbling deep with understanding. " **So your purpose is to send me back to Oblivion.** "

"That's the idea," Dalca said, stooping to pick up his sword. After sliding it into its scabbard, he continued on. "It wasn't so bad, was it?"

" **You have no idea** ," the demon replied, its voice vicious and hateful. The passion of it surprised Dalca. He watched as the boy paced with him, disappearing briefly each time Dalca passed a column, only to reappear on the other side, its metallic features twisted in rage. " **I will not return.** "

"We'll see about that," Dalca said when he reached the entrance again. He tossed Wagner's sword atop his body, and then removed his sheath to put his there as well.

As he unsnapped the holster from his thigh, the boy inquired further. " **How did you know, lord father?** "

"Know what?" he asked, after putting aside the last of his things, including the black book. He didn't bother removing his clothes.

" **To use my fathers** **'** **power against me** ," the demon replied. " **Good father said you knew nothing of me. That you did not learn anything in your time together.** "

"A bookworm told me," Dalca replied, slowly walking back toward the center of the room. When he reached the inner ring of columns, he resumed his circular pacing, watching as the demon tread upon the bronze disk.

Dalca noted that the damage inflicted by the earlier attacks had all but disappeared. The blackened bronze had smoothed over, as had the cracks on the surface. Some of the dents caused by Wagner's kinetic attacks were gone, and as Dalca watched, more disappeared as the metallic skin shifted.

He looked to the bronze flooring, the large disk spanning at least half of the open space in the middle of the chamber. Maybe it was there for more than just decoration. The demon hadn't stepped off of it since their initial conflict had ended.

" **And what will you do now, lord father?** " the demon asked, its eyes remaining fixed on Dalca. " **Will to attempt to murder your child? Give up the power that I offer?** "

"No power you could offer will equal what I'll get for sending you back," Dalca replied.

" **But you have not yet seen the extent of my power, lord father,** " the demon replied. " **Let me help you understand.** "

Dalca watched as the child continued to pace upon the edge of the bronze disk. At first he didn't notice anything of note. Other than a slight drop in the room temperature, which barely affected Dalca with his skin almost burning as it was.

But then his steps stuttered, as the bronze beneath the boy's feet rippled.

" **You do not yet understand what I am, lord father** ," the demon said as he continued walking. As he did, the metal beneath him began to cling to his feet, like warm taffy stretching out beneath his tread. It glinted wetly in the torchlight, the metal slowly flowing up the thin legs of the boy, merging with the metal already upon his form. " **You do not understand what I** ** _was_**."

"You were a two-bit hack of a demon that convinced ancient humans you were something more," Dalca replied, resuming his trip around the disk. The boy continued walking as well, as more and more bronze slid up his form.

" **I was a** ** _God_** ," the demon crowed, its voice growing even louder as its body doubled in size. It continued on, the molten flesh rippling as it grew. " **I was** ** _Moloch_** **.** "

"You and every pitiful spirit that could trick a human into worshiping them," Dalca spat. "Until they finally realized how pathetic you were. And then they forgot you, because you're nothing worth remembering."

" **Not entirely forgotten** ," the demon replied. Dalca realized with a start that it'd grown tall enough to make Dalca look up at its face, which was void of features as it shifted about. " **A tablet remained.** "

"The one Schröter's people found," Dalca said. "The one where the name had worn off."

" **Exactly, lord father.** "

"That tablet was destroyed," Dalca said. "And the etchings they took along with it."

" **Did you do that, lord father?** " the demon asked. " **Did you try to erase me?** "

"No," Dalca admitted. "Others did that. But I was told. As I was told that I was the only one that could end you."

" **And who told you that, lord father?** " the demon inquired, its curiosity obvious. " **Who knows of me? Who shall I call upon once all of my fathers are dead and gone?** "

Dalca smiled…

 _…_ _After reading the article, Dalca put the paper down, reaching for the phone. He dialed the number from memory, and waited three rings before someone picked up._

 _"_ _She said you'd be calling," the man said, not bothering with a greeting._

 _"_ _Put her on," Dalca replied._

 _"_ _She's busy," the other stated, his tone leaving no room for question._

 _"_ _I don't deal with lap dogs," Dalca reminded the man. "You know that."_

 _"_ _Maybe not. But you don't have to speak with her," the man replied. "She told me to relay a message: Your deal remains. If you find the thing you helped create, kill it. And she'll fulfill her end of the bargain."_

 _"_ _What about my other fee?" Dalca asked. "This is going to cost me power."_

 _"_ _That's your problem," the man said without any trace of sympathy. "You know her rules. She won't authorize you to feed on anyone but those that summon a demon, or those working for a demon of their own free will."_

 _"_ _Everyone else that summoned it is dead," Dalca observed. "And I have no idea how many mortals, if any, are serving it willingly."_

 _"_ _Again._ Your _problem, not hers._ _"_

 _Dalca didn_ _'_ _t let his frustration show. Instead, he calmed himself. "Can I expect any backup?"_

 _"_ _No," the man replied. "She said this thing was born of your power. Only the powers that brought it forth can destroy it."_

 _Dalca blinked, feeling a mild concern._ _"_ Powers? _As in more than one?_ _"_ _He thought back on the summoning ritual from that night so long ago. "The wizard is long since dead. Same for Schröter. Will my power be enough?"_

 _Rather than replying, the man covered his end of the phone, a scratching noise sounding before Dalca heard a muffled conversation. Even with his good ears, he couldn_ _'_ _t make out what was said. But he could guess at who the man was speaking to._

 _When he finally came back on, the man said,_ _"_ _She says you shouldn't have to worry about that."_

 _"_ _I'm not going up against a demi-god on my own," Dalca said. "I don't have that kind of power anymore."_

 _"_ _You have enough," the man said. "It will be vulnerable to you."_

 _Dalca_ _'_ _s eyes narrowed. "Does that go both ways?"_

 _The man was silent for a long moment. When his reply finally came, it was with an audible smile._ _"_ _Maybe you'll finish each other off."_

 _Despite himself, Dalca spent a moment imagining finding the man on the other end of the line and flaying his skin off. That pleasant thought helped him temper his response._ _"_ _Fine. I'll kill the demon, and she'll pay up."_

 _Another muffled comment, followed by,_ _"_ _And she says don't forget the book." the man asked._

 _He sounded confused about that part, but that was to be expected. He didn_ _'_ _t actually know as much as he was pretending; he didn't know about the nature of the deal. Nor would Dalca be the one to tell him._

 _"_ _How am I supposed to find that?" Dalca asked. "Schröter's been dead for years. And I'm not going to have time to look for it if I'm hunting down this demon. It's not like I'm going to find one sitting beside the other."_

 _There was another muffled conversation. When it was done, the man came back on._ _"_ _We'll take care of that end. It'll probably be with his family's things."_

 _"_ _Fine," Dalca replied. "Just be ready to meet up as soon as I call. I'd like to get this over with. She's been holding it over my head for years."_

 _The man_ _'_ _s reply was amused. "Poor little dragon."_

 _"_ _Bite me, Hellhound."_

 _Jared Kincaid laughed darkly before hanging up. Dalca glared at the handset for a moment, but stopped as he heard the others coming. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, as Jean Wilson arrived at the library door, with Mara perched on her shoulder. He kept his expression bland; no reason to let the girl know he could be rattled._

 _"_ _Why are we going to Germany?"_

… "You know what?" Dalca asked, smiling outright at the demon. "I'm tempted to send you after them. Just to see what they'd do to you."

The massive form of the creature just glared at him, unamused. The disk of bronze on the floor was all but gone, having been absorbed into the demon's body to allow it to grow. Only the three dark eyes were the same as they'd been. The rest was completely different, if still familiar.

Whereas before the boy had stood a meter and a half tall, the demon now stood closer to three. Its eyes were still set in its forehead, although the face around them had changed. Gone were the human features, replaced instead by those of a bull, with a full snout with sharp teeth unnatural to the real species. Horns curled up from either side of its head, threatening to scrape the high ceiling of the temple.

Golden bat wings extended behind the demon, folding and unfolding as it adapted to their presence. A long tail coiled behind it, flickering in the light from the dying torches. The demon shifted, its cloven feet dragging upon the iron cauldron set into the ground, which had previously been filled with bronze. Its legs were those of a goat, powerful and muscled for leaping. Its arms and torso were still humanoid, although the claws on the tips of its fingers were more like the talons of a bat.

The demon's form was the same as the bronze effigy had been that night so long ago, sitting coiled around the first cauldron. The last time Dalca had seen that face, it'd been molten, dribbling over the remains of the thirteenth sacrifice.

The demon stepped forward, its hooves cracking the frost that blossomed over the cauldron. The rest of the temple matched it, as the heat from the air was drawn in to manipulate the metal.

" **Tell me, lord father** ," the demon rumbled through bronze fangs, its voice like thunder echoing through the enclosed space. " **Tell me, and I will call upon them after I am through with you.** "

"No," Dalca said with a shake of his head. "I think we'll just end it now."

The massive demon seemed amused by that proclamation. " **And how will you do that, lord father? Will you destroy me here, at my place of power, while I am at my strongest?** "

Dalca looked up at the creature. "Good point. You've let me see your 'true power'," he said, somewhat mockingly. He let his smile slip from his face.

"Allow me to do the same."

The power within Dalca blossomed, causing his already glowing skin to shine like an inferno. His clothing was incinerated in an instant as a scream burst from his lips, a sound that shifted and changed as Dalca did.

Dalca's body grew, the power fueling his transformation. His body thickened with tight muscle even as his skin hardened, taking on the blackened red of his true form. Serpentine scales spread across him, slithering over his muscle into a hide that was all but impenetrable.

His eyes had already shifted into their reptilian form, their iris slits growing longer. He felt his face extend into a long, toothy muzzle. Steam curled out along his breath, not from the cold in the room, but from the fires that burned within. His lips peeled back to reveal his own fangs, his forked tongue lashing against them in anticipation.

Dalca's body shifted as it continued its transformation. Ridge plates formed down his spine, each razor sharp and curving wickedly. More extended along his arms and legs, while talons grew from his fingers and toes.

The air snapped as the limbs growing from his back completed their formation, the dark leathery skin extending out along his taloned wings. The frost on the ground shifted as his tail grew out, until it was long enough to curl up toward his head, the wicked barb on the end sharp and strong enough to cut steel.

Once his transformation was complete, the Zmeu stood seven feet tall. Still shorter than the demon, but just as terrifying to any that beheld him.

Dalca looked to the brazen creature before him, a smile on his serpent lips. His voice was guttural when he spoke, the kind of sound that sent men running in terror.

"Sweet child of mine. Let me show you what _true_ power is."

And then the dragon blurred into motion, his voice a bellow that shook the walls as he set forth to destroy the demon of his own creation.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Dalca's claws burned hot as they swept toward the demon. The cold air sizzled in his passage, his body heat causing steam to curl around him as he slammed into the brazen monster.

For his part, the demon was silent as Dalca set to work. Blackened claws tore at the bronze flesh, rending it to leave deep gouges in the form. The demon shuddered under the assault, but did not scream out as most would.

Dalca flung his hand away, the demon's golden blood arcing through the room as he swiped again and again. Each time his claws found the metallic skin, they tore through it as if it were nothing but mortal flesh. The demon staggered and retreated, clearly surprised at how easily his body broke down under Dalca's strength.

But it wasn't strength alone. Dalca was strong, but even he should have struggled against empowered metal. No, the key laid in his transformation, and the power he'd used.

Rather than fueling his form with only his own power, Dalca had used the magic of the wizard, combined with some of the ability from the summoner. All three were laced into every inch of his body, giving him the power necessary to wound the demon. His transformed flesh was now a weapon unto itself.

As the bronze figure backed away, Dalca threw himself forward, using his wings to propel him at speed. He crashed into the larger form, carrying it through the air until they smashed their way through two rows of columns, before finally cracking the outer curving wall of the chamber.

Dalca roared as he laid into the demon, rending its form with tooth and nail. The bull's snout twisted in fury as the slow demon finally responded to the attack, lashing out with its own clawed hands.

A grunt of pain escaped Dalca's lips, as the bronze talons tore into one of his shoulders.

Once again his wings snapped, carrying Dalca backward in a flash. His good arm swung out as he went, catching the demon in its throat. More metal spilt as Dalca moved out of the creature's range, sliding to a stop in the center of the chamber. He glanced to his shoulder, finding the wounds there shallow but bloody. His own sanguine fluid dripped to the floor, leaving steaming piles on the frost. But there was golden blood there as well. Even striking at Dalca's transformed flesh had been enough to hurt the demon.

Dalca increased the temperature in his shoulder, causing the wound there to cauterize. The bronze slid from his body to drip down to the floor, where Dalca's own blood had already evaporated.

With his wound dressed for the moment, Dalca looked up to the demon, who was slowly starting forward.

" **Impressive, lord father** ," the demon said, once again lacking any true expression in its tone. " **You are very powerful.** "

"You ain't seen nothing yet, boy," Dalca growled.

The bull's head cocked to one side. " **Neither have you.** "

There wasn't even a twitch of a golden shoulder to warn Dalca; the power just slammed into him, sending him hurtling back across the room. Thankfully he missed hitting any columns, but still hit the far wall with bone-jarring force.

"That's nothing," Dalca spit, his long muzzle curled in disdain to hide his pain. "Wagner hit harder than that."

Rather than replying, the demon simply lifted an arm. When he slung it to the side, another powerful kinetic blow struck Dalca, sending him tumbling through the outer alcove of the temple. He tried breaking free of it, but the power just threw him along. Bouncing from wall to column, Dalca gasped as his large body was slung about with ease.

He'd almost completed a full circuit of the room by the time he finally twisted into a position that would allow him to break free of the cyclonic force. As the kinetic wave pushed him along, Dalca hit the curved wall with his taloned feet, bunching his legs to spring him forward. It wouldn't have been enough to free him from the ongoing torrent of wind and air, but the snap of his wings behind him provided the burst necessary to shoot free.

With the kinetic wave behind him, Dalca angled his wings, using the momentum from his leap to twist around a column and hurtle at the demon. Its arms rose to meet him, but the metallic body couldn't move as quickly as one made of flesh. The two crashed together again, and then once more they were crashing through the room, leaving rubble in their wake.

Dalca's claws tore at the demon, stealing more bronze from its body. At the same time, Dalca reared his head back, before unleashing a powerful wave of fire from his belly. The dragon fire spilled over the brazen form, liquefying much of it.

Another kinetic blast, this one blunt and harsh, sent Dalca backwards. Expecting such a trick, he snapped his wings as he spun, twisting around to land on his feet, sliding back over the iron cauldron in the middle of the room. His talons left rivets in the metal as he slowed.

"Is that the best you've got, boy?" Dalca growled, staring at the fallen demon.

The creature was slow to respond, but eventually pulled itself up. Dalca noticed that the rends he'd torn into its hide were slowly healing, but the demon's size was shrinking as it shifted the metal from the rest of its body to compensate. It maintained its monstrous form, though, and as it advanced forward, the three obsidian eyes stared balefully at the Zmeu.

" **You are powerful, lord father,** " the demon admitted. " **More powerful than I, in my weakened form.** "

"Weakened form?" Dalca asked, unable to help himself.

" **Yes, lord father** ," the demon replied. " **I am only as powerful as the good father allowed me to be.** "

"What do you mean?" Dalca asked, his brow furrowing.

" **I was weak when my fathers summoned me** ," the demon explained. " **Centuries upon centuries spent in Oblivion left me powerless. Only the power given by your sacrifices gave me the strength to return.** "

"Ain't that a shame," Dalca grumbled, waiting for the demon's trick. Because usually when the enemy started bantering, it was because they were planning something particularly wicked.

" **Yes, it was,** " the demon agreed. " **But after my return, good father was careful to limit me.** "

"Limit you? How?" Dalca asked, before a thought struck him. "You mean the sacrifices?"

" **Yes, lord father,** " the demon confirmed. " **He refused to provide more than one sacrifice each year. And only provided a child, rather than someone with any real strength.** "

Dalca's head rocked back. He wasn't sure if he should be glad that Schröter had done that or not. Fewer and weaker sacrifices were better than many stronger ones. Especially now that Dalca had to contend with the result of those efforts. But even Dalca didn't stoop so low as to kill children.

Not from any moral high ground. It was just a waste of a good future meal.

"You're probably not too sad to see him go, then," Dalca said, movement out of the corner of his eye catching his attention. But when he looked, he didn't see anything. Perhaps just a settling piece of rubble and the dust in the air.

" **I will mourn my good father,** " the demon said. " **But with his passing, new opportunities arise.** "

 _No wonder the demon hadn_ _'_ _t helped Schröter in the chapel_ , Dalca thought. _It_ wanted _the man to die, in order to try and gain more power for itself._

"Like finding new followers to give you more sacrifices?" Dalca guessed.

The demon stepped forward. " **Yes, lord father. Many more. Enough to restore me to power. So that I might rule over mankind once again.** "

"I don't think you'll find the world all that accommodating," Dalca said. "But if Schröter was so bad, why didn't you just get the other acolytes to do it for you?"

" **Only good father knew my name,** " the demon said.

"Why not teach them?" Dalca asked.

" **Speaking my name is dangerous,** " the demon replied. " **Other things take note when it is spoken. That is why it must be written**."

"Schröter spoke your name in the ritual," Dalca observed. As he did, more movement drew his attention down. A cold feeling settling into his gut as he saw the frost moving across the floor. "What's that?"

" **Good father never spoke my True Name,** " the demon replied. " **He could not get the pronunciation right. It was his writing in the book that summoned me. Even my good sister did not know my name as she completed the rituals in my honor. Only by attending them could I gain the strength offered.** "

"You ignored my question," Dalca said, watching liquid metal trickle across the floor toward the demon. "Is that your blood pooling at your feet?"

The demon continued to ignore him. " **I was there, lord father,** " it continued. " **From the very first ritual that good father completed, I was there, in the brazen body my good father had provided. I watched as you tortured my blood father. I know your nature. We are alike, you and I.** "

"Great," Dalca growled, growing angry as the metal he'd torn from the demons body made its way across the room. As he watched, it began to flow back up into its form, increasing its size again. "Then he wasted a bunch of lives for nothing."

" **Not nothing, lord father,** " the demon said. " **They gave me strength. As will every sacrifice from this day forward.** "

Dalca didn't reply; he simply stared at the massive brazen creature, which had returned to its full size as they spoke. Nothing he'd done so far had made a lasting impact on it; the demon had simply bided its time, waiting for its flesh to flow back to itself.

The demon took note of Dalca's attention. " **Yes, lord father. You begin to understand my power. I am immortal, given flesh that cannot be destroyed. You cannot kill me.** "

"That's inconvenient," Dalca muttered, his low voice carrying through the room.

" **Join me, lord father,** " the demon said, stepping forward. " **There is no need for conflict between us. I will give you power; sacrifice in my name, and I will give you all the power you desire. You will no longer require mortals willing to sacrifice each other**."

The demon's words gave Dalca pause. It seemed to sense that, as it pressed on. " **I heard you just now, whispering to my blood father. That you can only feed on those given to you. If you serve me, I will take the power from my sacrifices and give it to you. We will become strong** ** _together_** **.** "

Dalca studied the demon's form, considering its words. Something clicked. "Ah. I see."

" **You will join me?** " the demon asked, sounding pleased.

"What? No," Dalca said. "No, I wasn't considering your offer."

" **Why not, lord father?** "

"Because I've seen your power in others. I know it's not actually theirs," Dalca explained. "You didn't give Schröter power; you just gave him bits of yourself."

" **The power is within me, lord father** ," the demon explained.

"Exactly," Dalca said with a knowing smile. "But you misunderstand me. Your method of giving power won't work for me."

" **Why not, lord father?** "

"Because the power has to be _mine_ ," Dalca said, even as he started gathering up his power. "It's what sustains me. Without it, I'd die."

The demon studied him. " **What would happen if you used up all of your power, lord father?** "

"I think you could guess," Dalca replied.

" **I see,** " the demon said. " **Then let us part, lord father. Let me take the book, and we shall trouble each other no further.** "

"Can't let that happen," Dalca said, shaking his head. "Going to have to end things here and now."

" **But you cannot, lord father** ," the demon said, its massive form straightening. " **You cannot kill me. I will survive your attacks, and you will eventually run out of power, withering away to nothing. And then I will still have the book.** "

"That's where you're wrong," Dalca said. "See, I saw the damage I did earlier. You might have recovered from Wagner's attacks in time, but mine was lasting."

" **It was not,** " the demon said, its tone suddenly biting.

"It was," Dalca insisted with a dark smile. "Because it destroyed the metal. Which, as you said, is the 'flesh that cannot be destroyed'. The flesh that 'contains your power'. My lightning destroyed it, which is why you hit your reserves up," he added, gesturing to the now empty pit.

" **You are mistaken, lord father,** " the demon growled, its tone growing more menacing as it realized the threat he posed.

"Let's find out," Dalca replied.

And then he unleashed a bolt of unraveling lighting.

The massive form of the demon disappeared in a blink, the frost on the floor swirling up as it traveled into the Never-never demesne. The lightning struck the far wall, disintegrating the stony surface.

Dalca was already turning, his ears listening for the telltale pop as the demon returned. He heard it, and fired off a blind shot of black lightning that streaked between two columns to hit the demon on the far side of the room.

Once again it failed to scream, but Dalca could tell that he'd hurt it. The bolt had struck the demon in the left arm. Wherever the dark light had touched his metallic flesh, scorched rends had been left across the surface. Particles drifted through the air, as the demon's skin was returned to its base components.

"Copper and tin," Dalca growled with a smile. "And maybe some other choice elements Schröter's people used to construct your effigy. You have control over the bronze, but not the individual elements."

In response, the demon threw power at the Zmeu.

Knowing the retaliation had to be forthcoming, Dalca dove to one side, his wings snapping to twist him in the confined space of the room. The kinetic wave chased him, but he was already past it, diving for the demon.

This time when his claws struck, they shone with an ultrascarlet nimbus, as Dalca channeled his unraveling spell into his talons. Each tore through the demon's flesh much as they had the first time. Only instead of flinging bits of molten metal about, they now left a trail of charred particles in their wake.

The demon fought back. Dalca was thrown aside as the bronze figure's superior strength struck at his wounded arm. A hoof lashed out toward him, but it was met with a bolt of black lightning. The creature staggered, half of its cloven foot disappearing into a cloud of blackened copper and tin.

Dalca fired bolt after bolt, the powerful attacks quickly exhausting him. But each destroyed a little more of the demon, who struggled to keep up with the assault. Unlike before, its burnt flesh could not flow over wounds. The edges of the creature were transformed, which stole its ability to manipulate it.

Desperate, it lowered its head and charged, hoping to gore Dalca with its horns. The Zmeu was faster, twisting aside and lashing his tail out, the red hue on its barb cutting through one of the protrusions on the creature's forehead.

The demon crashed into the wall, losing its balance. More bolts of lightning struck it, maiming it from head to toe.

Eventually Dalca stood back, looking down at the broken demon.

His repeated attacks had left its brazen body in ruins. Both legs had failed it, and one arm had been blasted clean off. The rest struggled to rise, but the power within it was waning.

" **No,** " the demon gasped. " **No. I will not go back there.** "

"Sorry, kid," Dalca said without any sympathy. "Your days on earth are over."

Raising one arm up, Dalca summoned a dense shield of black energy. The edges crackled with ultrascarlet light, bolts of the brighter color traveling across the dark surface as he lowered it toward the demon.

It screamed then, as Dalca passed the unraveling shield over its flesh. Not in pain, or rage, or suffering. It screamed in desperation. It pleaded for mercy. It begged for its life.

Anyone else might have felt sympathy for it. No-one was so cruel as to listen to the suffering of another creature, not matter how vile, without feeling at least a pang of regret for its loss.

No-one except Rău Dalca, that is.

The Zmeu simply watched impassively as his power destroyed the demon child, until nothing remained but dust.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

After entirely too long, the last of the Moloch demon was destroyed. Dalca covered every inch of the devastated temple to be sure each and every piece of bronze had been obliterated from existence.

When he was sure the demon was done, he went to the stairs. Gathering up his things, he carried them and Wagner's body up the long flight of stairs.

* * *

It took a while for them to gather all of the bodies, but Dalca wasn't taking any chances. Every lycanthrope, every acolyte of the Moloch demon, was incinerated, to make sure any and all of the bronze in their blood was destroyed.

It was good thaumaturgic practice for Jean, who used a bit of the lifeless bronze to track down the rest of its pieces. While it might have seemed like harmless metal, it worried Dalca that the thaumaturgy spell worked at all. If there were enough lingering power in the pieces to bind them magically, then there might be enough to allow the demon to continue to exist in some fashion.

Dalca sighed, knowing that meant they'd be spending a good deal of time traveling around Europe, making sure every piece was turned to ash.

But such is life.

* * *

The story of the film crew's gruesome discovery at the Beelitz Heilstatten Sanatorium was trumped by the coverage of the raid on the storage warehouse. Officials reported that several guards had been killed, seemingly crushed by powerful intruders, before the thieves had parted with numerous pieces of evidence. The nature of the stolen items was never released, but the public consensus was that it must have been drugs. The police let them believe that, as they didn't want the focus to return to the odd ritual site.

There were two stories in the Goslar papers. The first was a pleasant story, of a missing girl returned home by a mysterious stranger. The girl's parents thanked whoever was responsible, blessing them for their kindness. A cut-out of that paper ended up on a wall somewhere in Copenhagen.

The second story wasn't as pleasant. After battling the blaze for several hours, the local fire department was able to extinguish the blaze that had devastated the Königsberg Sanatorium. The public was told that the fire had been started by arsonists. No leads were ever found. Nor was there ever any mention of the vagrants' bodies found within the remains of the building. A half-hearted investigation went into identifying them, as officials assumed it must have been homeless men and women that had died in a fire of their own making.

When the bodies went missing a few days later, no-one said a thing.

The destruction at Kastel ter Meeren didn't even make the local news for the first few days. The police eventually showed up when visitors to the park found the wreckage in the chapel. A search party was sent out looking for poor old Jöhan Becker, but neither he nor his daughter ever turned up. No-one was quite sure how such damage could have been done to the building, but the general assumption was that a sink hole had appeared beneath the chapel. Thus was the uneven ground and sagging walls explained away.

After a city council meeting, it was decided that repairs to the old mansion would be needed. An anonymous donor decided to help the city with the costs, while secretly overseeing the construction crew that worked on the project. It took a few months, but the damage was repaired, at very little cost to the city.

If anyone noticed that the workers tended to wear gloves when handling the power equipment, they didn't say anything. Nor did they notice the disappearance of a large portion of the books in the small library.

After the repairs were completed, the donor left the ongoing upkeep to the city. A plaque was erected in his honor. Those visiting the park could find the sign on the outer wall, which thanked Herr Fürst for his generous donations.

* * *

Dalca and Jean sat at the cafe in Brussels, enjoying a late afternoon snack.

"They still haven't reported anything," Jean observed, looking over the morning paper.

It'd been two days since their raid on the castle. "I'm sure someone will visit eventually. It's their busy time of year, after all."

"Are we going to stay until someone finds it?" Jean asked around a pastry.

"No," Dalca said with a slight shake of his head. "We'll head back to Germany to retrieve the other bodies before too long. And then we'll begin hunting for anyone that escaped our attention."

"Like that Herzog person?" Jean asked with a full mouth.

"Like that Herzog person," Dalca confirmed, watching a black town car come to a stop further down the road.

"Then why are we still here?" The girl had grown irritated with the delay. Dalca suspected it was because the young Jonson boy had been spending every moment he could trying to convince her to leave Dalca and join the White Council. Then again, she had a bunch of new books on magic to peruse once they got back.

"Business," Dalca said, putting his cup down as a driver stepped out of the distant car. When Dalca saw the man's face, he made to stand up. "Stay here."

Jean blinked in surprise, but did as ordered. She watched as he strolled down the road toward the waiting car. About halfway there, he stopped at another cafe, and sat down at the table furthest from anyone else.

The driver of the car, a tall and burly man with his blond hair tied back beneath a chauffeur's cap, nodded to Dalca at a distance while opening the back door. A moment later, a girl of about thirteen slipped from the back seat.

Dalca watched her approach with some mild amusement. She was no older than that last sacrifice had been, the one that had provided the body for the demon. But from what Dalca had heard, this girl's life had been sacrificed much earlier than that.

His eyes played over her summer dress as she approached, a yellow thing with frills and flowers. The man with her kept his distance, letting her approach alone. When she arrived at his table, Dalca considered standing, out of respect.

Instead, he didn't.

"Mr. Dalca," the girl said as she stood next to the table. Her voice was stern and slightly disapproving. Most likely because of the company, rather than a lack of manners.

"Archive," Dalca replied with a slight inclination of his head.

The girl that might possibly be the most powerful mortal on the planet returned the nod, before sitting across from the dragon.

"Do you have it?" the girl asked without preamble.

"Would you like anything to eat or drink?" Dalca asked with a small smile. "Perhaps a cookie?"

"No thank you," the girl replied. "We just finished lunch a short while ago. Do you have it?"

"I do," Dalca said, unable to keep the grin off of his face.

"I do not see what is so amusing," the Archive said, her tone prim.

"Sorry," Dalca said, shaking his head. "Just not used to this. Last I saw the Archive, it was… your grandmother, I guess?"

"That is correct," the girl replied.

"Why, I could tell you some stories about _her_ ," Dalca said with a leer.

"All of which would be lies, I'm sure," the Archive replied, her eyes narrowing. "Do not forget that I retain all the knowledge of those that came before me, Rău Dalca. I know everything they knew. I remember your interactions with them."

"Well, that's why we're here, after all," Dalca said, while reaching for his pocket. The girl didn't even flinch.

Not that she needed to worry.

As the Archive, she was the living embodiment of all human knowledge. Anything written down, in any form as far as Dalca knew, would be passed on to her. And as they say, knowledge is power. Every spell jotted down in a grimoire, every secret a wizard stashed away, every phonetic name written out, was sent to her.

Dalca smiled, imagining all of that knowledge. There for the taking, if he could just get to it.

Instead, he shook his head, and withdrew the book with the name of the demon.

It had been one of her predecessors that had arranged for this. She'd known of the summoning; known that the name had been written out. A previous Archive had eventually caught up with Dalca, and had him relay what he knew. He'd told her about the bronze child he'd seen, and the book that contained its name.

That's when they'd struck a deal. A name for a name, so to speak.

Dalca held the book out to the girl, who reached for it. Before she grabbed it, Dalca pulled it back. "Uh-uh. What about your part?"

The girl frowned at him, as if upset he'd accuse her of cheating him. "Did you abide by my rules?"

It was weird hearing her refer to rules laid down by one of her predecessors, but Dalca understood. "I did. No innocents were harmed by me, without their express permission. Nor did I knowingly allow them to become harmed. _Nor_ did I fail to act to preserve innocent life. _Nor_ did I fail to help those in need." Her predecessors tended to be sticklers.

"Did you read it?"

"No," Dalca assured her. "Neither has anyone else. And the demon itself told me only Schröter knew it."

"Then if you give me the book, and finish exterminating the demon, I will fulfill our bargain," the little girl stated simply.

Dalca frowned as he pulled the book back. "Hold on, bookworm. I killed the demon."

The girl gave him a blunt look. "I am perfectly aware of your knowledge that more bronze still exists out in the world."

Dalca bit back his curse. "Stupid apprentices and their stupid journals."

The Archive just shook her head. "It is a wonder why you keep doing that to yourself."

Dalca couldn't help but smile at the girl of thirteen, who he'd never met before, reminiscing about him. "It's weird, seeing you so young."

A twitch of a smile appeared at one corner of her lips, a familiar familial gesture. It disappeared quickly. "The book."

"Why don't we both acknowledge that I'm going to finish off the bits of bronze, and square things up now?"

"Because I know you, Rău Dalca," the Archive said. "It took you sixty-odd years to do this much. You'd likely let another century pass before you got the job finished."

Dalca flipped the small notebook in his hand a few times as he considered the situation. "How about a partial payment in advance, then?" he asked.

The girl grew suspicious. "I hardly think that would be appropriate."

Dalca sighed. "A single syllable of the name, and I give you the book now. After I've hunted down the last of the bronze, we'll do the rest."

The girl might have been young, but the Archive was ancient. Older than even Dalca. "It occurs to me that a single syllable of anyone else's name would be of no import," she replied, her gaze stony. "However, it is not anyone else's name we speak of."

"That's right," Dalca said, gripping the book tight as he let his voice thicken. "It's mine."

The two stared at each other for quite a while. The dragon, who had the name of a demon, and the repository of knowledge, that had the dragon's.

"Very well," the Archive finally said. "Give me the book, and I shall forget one syllable." Her gaze remained hard. "You of all people should know what I could do with the rest."

"Oh, I know," he assured her, passing the book over.

The girl flipped through the pages, finding the one most important to her. When she located the name, she nodded, as if it confirmed something she already knew.

Which she did.

As Dalca looked on, the Archive looked up. Her eyes grew distant, before they began to flicker back and forth. It looked a lot like she was reading a book, scanning the lines for a particular passage. Which, Dalca supposed, was kind of what she was doing.

Eventually she found it. It took perhaps a thousand eye twitches, which lasted approximately two and a half seconds. After studying it for a moment, she looked back to Dalca. "…dă…"

As she spoke, Dalca felt a pulse of power rush out. It gave him goosebumps, or the Zmeu equivalent, which was a ripple of scaly skin that came and went across his body. When it was gone, the girl blinked, looking as if she'd forgotten something important.

Which she had.

Something very important indeed.

"Satisfied?" she asked, suddenly sounding curt. Most likely it was because she subconsciously knew that she already had less power over the creature in front of her than she'd had a moment ago.

"For now," Dalca confirmed, his smile genuine. "Don't forget the rest once I contact you." Dalca paused. "Actually, _do_ forget the rest."

The girl stood, giving the Zmeu the slightest inclination of her head. "Until next time."

She started to walk away, but turned back when Dalca called out. "Hey, bookworm." The girl met his eyes briefly, doubt flickering across her youthful features. As confident as she'd acted, she was still just a young girl in the presence of a monster. The historical Archive might have had a lot of experience with those, but the current host hadn't. She flinched when she was his reptilian eyes.

"If you ever want a bodyguard worth a damn, let me know," Dalca said, his gaze drifting to the distant Hellhound. "You wouldn't be the first of your kind to work with me."

"True," the girl said with a distant voice. "But I think not. Considering what almost happened the last time."

Dalca smiled a small smile. "See you later, alligator."

"After a while, crocodile," the girl replied without thinking. That seemed to startle her, as she'd answered in the tune of the song. A song written over fifty years prior, well before her lifetime. When her grandmother had still been a young woman, and had not yet taken on the responsibilities of the Archive.

No. That song was known by her great-grandmother. As was the memory accompanying it.

It was clearly one the girl hadn't happened across on her own. With millennia of mortal memories adding to the repository of human knowledge, it's hard to keep track of every little old thing. Smaller things, like centennial birthdays and pop hits of the 50's, tended to get shuffled to the back.

Blushing at the memory, the girl walked quickly away, leaving the dragon behind. He watched her go, before whistling a familiar tune as he went to rejoin Jean.

* * *

The girl had tons of questions, none of which Dalca answered. Instead, he drove them to the hospital, to take care of one last bit of business.

Jonson looked up from the hospital bed where he lounged as they entered. He seemed almost eager to see Jean, which is why Dalca had let her go in first. He knew the boy would be crushed when he came in after her, and Dalca wasn't left disappointed.

"Our deal is done," Dalca told the boy, who sat up on the bed. "I'll take my blood back now."

The boy's eyes shifted nervously. "What if I lost it?"

"You didn't," Dalca said.

"Old Wags wouldn't want me to give it to you," Jonson said softly. "He'd rather I use it first."

"Son, you don't have the power to give me a head cold, much less do any lasting damage," Dalca replied. "Just hand it over. If you do it quick enough, I'll give you Jean's number."

"What?!" exclaimed a startled apprentice.

"It's her cell," Dalca said, drawing out a piece of folded paper from his pocket.

The boy hesitated, although Dalca could tell he was sorely tempted. Maybe it was his altruistic side showing, the side that wanted to get the innocent girl away from the monster she'd fallen in with.

Or maybe he was just desperately in love. Either way, it made no difference to Dalca.

"Give me that," Jean snapped, trying to tug the paper out of his grasp with a telekinetic spell. When that failed, she tried to set it on fire. She wasn't quite ready for that level of finesse yet, but a corner singed.

"Running out of time," Dalca warned the boy.

The boy was clearly reluctant, despite the offer. Ultimately it wasn't up to him, though. His master had agreed to the deal. And wizards, no matter how much they might regret, don't go back on their word.

The curtain separating the room from the other bed slid back under an invisible hand, revealing the pale, weak form of Wagner.

"Give it to him," the warden of the White Council croaked. It was obvious that he was still feeling weak from his numerous injuries, which included a broken back that had left him paralyzed from the neck down.

Apparently Mara was aware of that, as she'd sunk her claws into the still-feeling portion of said neck.

"Mara," Dalca said in a chastising tone to the four-inch tall water vâlvă.

"What? You said heal the stupid warden," she snapped. "I'm healing the stupid warden."

"You can stop now, as long as he's stable," Dalca said. "I think we're in the clear."

"He's stable," Mara growled, shooting an irritated glance at Wagner as she withdrew her nails from his flesh. He looked to make sure she didn't take any of his blood in the process. "His own healers can do more."

Dalca turned back to the man's apprentice. "The blood?"

Jonson looked put out, but Dalca figured it was mostly because Jean had already retrieved the paper with her number on it. When magic had failed her, she'd resorted to an undignified jumping until she snatched it from his hand.

The boy climbed off the bed and retrieved the silver flask from his bag in the corner. He passed it to Dalca, who noted the boy's shifty gaze.

"Is this of any sentimental value?" Dalca asked Jean, keeping his eyes on Jonson.

"What? No," she replied, looking to the flask she'd provided. "It's one of a set."

"Perfect," Dalca said, before channeling power into his hand.

The skin on his palm began to glow as he sub-vocalized a spell. Within a few seconds, everyone could see the gleam of the heated metal, as the blood within began to boil. The flask wasn't quite on the verge of melting, but a less durable container would have.

In fact, a less durable container did, as the bag beside Jonson's bed burst into flames.

"What?" Jean said with a start, her eyes shooting to the flaming sack. The smoke from it was dark and dense, and Jonson was off the bed in a flash to try and salvage his things.

Dalca smiled as the boy smothered the flames, before casting an idle glance toward Wagner. "I guess your apprentice tried to keep a souvenir."

If the older wizard had known that Jonson had siphoned off some of the blood, he didn't let it show. He simply shot a scowl at the boy, before returning his gaze to Dalca. "We're done, then."

Dalca nodded. "Until next time, Sunshine."

And at that, he turned his back on the two wizards, leaving one looking frantic and the other looking pensive. Jean followed his lead, heading out before Jonson finished extinguishing the small fire. Mara joined her, flitting to her shoulder as she laughed at the boy's efforts.

But at the door, Dalca turned back, something dark glinting in his eyes as he looked to the older wizard.

"Keep my swords safe," he said with a smile that sent chills down the wizard's barely restored spine. "I'll be coming for them soon enough."

The dragon's dark laughter echoed down the corridor as he left the two wizards behind. Wondering just when he would begin stalking them. Wondering just how much of their long lives they had left.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

 _Two years later — Magdeburg, Germany_

The hunched figure shuffled about the dark room, its movements stiff and inhuman, even if that was what it had once been. A wheezing breath escaped every leaden footfall, each sounding as if it might be the creature's last. Somehow it persisted, surprising even itself at its continued existence.

From one corner of the room, a small collection of farm animals bleated and called. Even lacking what mortals called sentience, they knew that danger lurked nearby. Nature had always been better at sensing such things than humans realized. They watched the thing shift about, knowing their end was near. The room already wreaked of death, even though none had yet been sacrificed. The stench of it drove them to near madness, as hooves and horns scraped against metal bars.

The human that had gathered them moved through the shadows, dragging one stiff leg behind it. In its decrepit state, every task was difficult. It was nothing short of a Herculean effort that it'd managed to gather all the things necessary to complete the ritual. To try and regain that which it had lost.

Braziers had been placed about the room with the oils and incense necessary. A cauldron had been prepared, although it lacked the segmented center that the first had possessed. There was no brazen effigy crouched around the edge; such things were beyond the human's capabilities. But it had made the effort to use the ingredients it recalled from the first time.

There was nothing it could do about the drums. The human knew they were probably necessary, but it could not risk involving others. To do so would invite death itself to call upon it. And so it worked alone, spending months preparing the ritual site with its own stiff and useless fingers.

But all of that work would now pay off, if the human could summon a god.

When it was ready, once everything was in place, the human reached into the pocket of its jacket, withdrawing the box of matches. It wasted four in its efforts to light one, each snapping in its immobile grasp. When the fifth finally flared into existence, a joyous whimper escaped the human's lips.

With stiff shoulders, the human twisted its body, flicking the match into the cauldron, setting the waiting coals ablaze. Its eyes, one bloated and useless, the other weak and feeble, focused on the fires, casting its light across the dark room.

As the halo of illumination grew, it revealed the form of the other creature waiting in the shadows, silently watching the human work.

The hunched figure started when he spotted the other, a painful jerking motion rippling through its unresponsive body as it backpedaled away. Its limbs, all but worthless for the past two years, could not respond to the demands made of it, and the human collapsed to the ground, its whimper turning to one of fear and desperation as it looked upon death itself.

The second figure stepped forward, until the light shone warmly upon his face.

"Hello Herzog," Rău Dalca said softly, his voice lacking the menace that his looming form conveyed.

" _Noooo_ _…_ " came the wheezing reply from the human. The thing, that had once been as strong and fast and nimble as any mortal could hope to be, now flailed in the dust as it twitched its body back and forth, trying to distance itself from the thing that would destroy it.

Dalca took another step forward, coming to the edge of the cauldron. His eyes studied the former lycanthrope, observing what he could of its form.

The fingers that had once been powerful enough to break a man's neck were now bloated and decaying, as the flesh rotted away from the hardened bronze within his blood. His flesh was mottled, a sickly yellow color to his cheeks that had nothing to do with natural illness, and everything to do with the metal poisoning his body. Half of his face was wooden and tense, as if locked in place from a debilitating stroke; but instead of muscle rigidity, it was simply stiff due to the heavy alloy trapped within.

Dalca imagined the rest of Herzog looked the same. The once empowered bronze that had pumped through his veins, and allowed him to survive what should have been a fatal blow, now locked the man in eternal torment. It was the last of the demon-possessed material; Dalca had hunted down the rest over the last two years. And with each piece destroyed, the remainder was made that much weaker, until the once intimidating man had become nothing but a rotting statue that stank of death.

"Herzog, Herzog," Dalca muttered, shaking his head slowly as he made his way around the cauldron. He took his time, since there was no need to rush now. "Did you really think barbecue coals and lighter fluid would be enough to summon your god?"

The thing that had been Herzog groaned as it tried to roll onto its belly, shimmying towards the door at a snail's pace. Dalca left him alone, instead closing on the cages that contained the sacrifices. When he reached the first, he allowed one finger to extend, growing into a dark claw that shown with an inner heat.

The sight of it startled the ewe in the first cage, but Dalca paid it no mind. Instead, he ran the heated talon through the lock, severing it with a single swipe. With the clasp gone, the cage door popped open, leaving the way clear for the terrified animal to escape.

It didn't hesitate. It might not have known that its life was being spared, but it recognized opportunity when it arose. The ewe scampered out of the cage, its hooves sliding in its haste to flee. Dalca watched it as it found its footing and headed for the door, bounding over the prone form of Herzog with an effortless leap.

The rest of the sacrifices followed. Within moments, all that remained were the fluttering feathers and discarded scat from the creatures.

That, and the last sacrifice, which sat huddled in the cage in the furthest corner.

After its lock was broken, Dalca opened the cage, kneeling down to look in at the pitiful creature within.

"Come out," he said gently. At least, as gently as he ever managed.

The young girl twitched her head, terrified. Perhaps she'd seen his finger. Or perhaps watching the hunched figure prepare the ritual site had been enough to leave her traumatized. Either way, the girl would not flee of her own accord.

Dalca shook his head, once again reassured that humans were the stupidest of the earth's creatures.

"Come now," Dalca repeated, reaching slowly into the cage for the girl. She flinched at his touch, but his appearance was nothing but human as he drew her out. After a moment, her subconscious recognized what she could not, and she grasped at her savior, clinging to him as if he were her very own father.

Well. Maybe not _her_ father.

Dalca lifted the girl up, cradling her in his arms as he turned back to Herzog. The man hadn't gotten far; he lay only a foot or so further than when he'd last checked on his progress.

"Honestly. I don't know what you hoped to accomplish," Dalca said to the wretch lying on the floor. "You don't have its name; you don't have a wizard's blood; you didn't even have all the right _animals_."

" _Please_ _…_ " the human groaned, pleading now that it realized it could not escape the death that stalked it.

Dalca sighed, disappointed to see the once powerful creature brought so low. There'd been a time when drinking from Herzog would have been a pleasure; partaking of his furious power would have been a treat, even if it wasn't all that much.

Now, there was nothing in the world that would tempt Dalca to touch the wretch's power.

He started toward the man, but grimaced as the girl's grip around his neck tightened. Her face was pressed into his neck, and he suspected there was human tears and snot dripping onto his flesh.

"Where's a mortal apprentice when you need one, huh?" he asked in a frustrated tone, his milder attempts to dislodge the girl failing.

" _Please_ ," Herzog pleaded. " _I need_ _…_ _need it_."

"What you need, old friend, is closure," Dalca said. "As do I. It's time to end this drawn out charade."

He knelt beside the decrepit man, shifting the girl to get her attention. "Hey," he said, shaking her with a growing impatience. "Little weepy thing that's ruining my shirt."

The girl managed to pry her head away from his neck, and Dalca looked into the blood-shot golden eyes of the sacrifice. Her blond hair was filthy, as was the rest of her. Dalca looked at her the best he could, drawing her chin forward with a firm grasp.

"Say goodbye to your father."

The girl pulled away at his words, before burying her face in his neck again.

" _Please_ _…_ " Herzog whimpered, his dead eye floating beside his good one as he stared up at the girl. " _I need her_."

"Need her? Your own daughter, to sacrifice to your god?" Dalca asked, shaking his head. "Every time I almost think your species isn't a complete waste of organic compounds, one of you reminds me just how worthless you all are."

It'd been almost two years since Dalca had learned of the daughter of Herzog and Jöhanna Becker. He and Jean had paid a secret visit upon her and her foster family, to confirm that she was untouched by the brazen magics that had coursed through the veins of both her parents. To Dalca's surprise, there was no sign of it, despite the odd color of her eyes. They'd left her in peace, believing her to be the only survivor of the cursed family that had wrought its own destruction.

Of course, in his desperation, Herzog had dragged her back into it. Dalca was perfectly aware of the power behind a sacrifice of one's own blood relative. Being unable to do much else to match Schröter's original ritual, the foolish lycanthrope had tried to compensate with other dark practices.

But even so, Dalca was surprised that the old berserker was capable of such a thing.

Then again, he _had_ been a Nazi.

" _Please_ _…_ " Herzog begged one last time.

Dalca reached for him, grasping him by the neck. The human tried to pull free, but that would have been all but impossible even in his heyday. Now it was nothing more than a pitiful flailing of arms as Dalca lifted him effortlessly with one hand, while the other cradled the man's daughter.

"Goodbye, Herzog," Dalca said.

The man's good eye pleaded silently as yellow tears ran down his face.

Dalca stared back, unflinching, as he tossed him into the cauldron.

The crimson flames licked upward, scorching the flesh of the wailing man as he thrashed. The fires were hot, but not so hot as to end his suffering quickly. Dalca made no effort to ease it. Instead, he waited until the cries eventually grew silent. Only then did he lift his free arm toward the cauldron.

" _Kálo Tűz_."

The crimson fires consuming the flesh of the lycanthrope slowly faded into black flames edged in ultrascarlet. The unraveling spell finished what Dalca had started, destroying the last trace of both Herzog and the brazen Moloch demon.

With his free hand, Dalca pulled a small glass sphere from one pocket. It was the size of a marble, but hollow on the inside, save for a drop of liquid bronze. The thaumaturgic spells on the glass had shifted the metal within, so that it would point in the direction of any demon-touched bronze.

The metal now lay limp at the bottom, as the last of it was destroyed.

With a flick of his wrist, Dalca tossed the sphere into the cauldron, where it shattered upon contact with the dark fire. He watched until the flames burned through everything in the large cauldron, at which time it started to disintegrate the metal bowl itself. He finally tore his eyes away, only to blink in surprise at the girl in his arms, who had at some point turned to watch the magic burn away the last remnants of her would-be paternal sacrificer.

"I suppose I need to take you somewhere now," Dalca muttered, not sure what to do with the child born of two demon-touched mortals.

He couldn't take her back to her foster parents. Herzog had seen to that in the most brutal of fashions. And if the girl ended up a lycanthrope like her father, not just any foster family would do.

The girl clung tighter to Dalca, her eyes meeting his without any trace of fear.

"I'm not keeping you," Dalca insisted. "Mara would to be pissed."

As he turned to the door, Dalca let the spell peter out, casting the room into shadows once more. The girl held him tight as they made their way through the abandoned building. He was surprised when he realized he'd already figured out which room the girl would get in the Copenhagen mansion.

Shaking his head, Dalca wondered if he was going soft. Wondered if maybe Jean had rubbed off on him more than he cared to admit.

Surely he wasn't taking the girl to make up for the children he'd failed to protect all those years ago. Surely, in his very old age, he wasn't growing a conscience. Such a thing was unthinkable. It'd be too… _human_ of him.

And Rău Dalca, whatever he might be, was _not_ human.

He might have fallen far, but not _that_ far.

Even if there _had_ been a time when… well, no. That time had passed. Dalca cast the thought aside as he carried the child out of the old abandoned hospital, leaving the demons of the past where they belonged.


End file.
